Ours is the language of imbeciles, the gibberish of idiots. Here in this shadow country, our tinny voices scratch like a fly’s wing against unmoving air. Our bones are bleached within our skin our empty sockets regard the hungry crow. We are the carcasses reflected in the yellow eye. It is the romantic ballad of death’s embrace the solemn hymn of offal dripping from bloody teeth the lamentation of the bloated corpse rotting in the sun and the graceful ballet of maggots twisting in the ruins of God’s temple.
It is the song the falling snow sings and the discordant clamor of sunlight ripped apart by the canopy and miserly filtered down. It is the language of the bare bough and the cold stone, pronounced in the fell wind’s sullen whisper and the metronomic drip-drip of the rain. There are no human words for what I mean. I have stared too long into the abyss, and now the abyss stares back at me.īetween the sleeping and the waking, it is there.īetween the rising and the resting, it is there. The endless night will fall, and I will rise. Soon I will fall asleep and I will wake from this terrible dream. I set down the pen nearly a year ago, swearing I would never pick it up again. I wish to be rid of them, to be rid of him.
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