Don’t write poetry when you’re drunk, I’ve said, and yet it all weaves and wends, like under the tree where I still don’t know what they re-wove.
He’s there, smiling again, back, like the time He was on another’s face, and then another’s. The time I sat there, writing about the clothes the gods wear, and He’s hitting me over the head with another man’s cock and I’m smiling. I keep typing.
So much left to do before then, He’d said.
And it’s then. And I’m in just my boots, and there’s no one here but a man elsewhere, nearby but very far. Growls like the howls of the satyrs just outside the circle of light from the hearth, and I’m hearing that same music, and I remember:
Each page I tore and read before committing to flames. And I laughed, and it wasn’t just my laughter, but She at her hearth.
She said I’d see his death, which became mine, the scythe which bloods, and Dahut drowns the city out of joy.
Summon the dead, and the Wanderer, and ask them what this is about but you know the answer already, because it’s the answer to everything, and the cause of every question ever asked.
Rhyd Wildermuth 