Post-Self

A dream within a dream within a dream and fell visions sidling up too close both woo me. Sweet caramel and soft cream sit cloying on their tongues, and I, Atropos to such dreams as these, find shears on golden thread.

I would not cut, nor even could, had I but wished to sever this golden thread — and every thread is golden — and end a friend and send to mist and sorrow ones so dear. Dead! Dead! She is dead and gone, for her own shears were sharper still.

And so she cut, and so they watched, and so I watched such love as this cease. I yearn to say that she returned to me, became a part of me, but a tally notched among the lost was all that stayed when life was spurned by the call of death — supposedly ended.

So, she is gone and now our lives are darker for it, and now this world is where the shadows lie, and all the light that still remains is forfeit, and so much green still stabs towards the sky, and yellowed teeth of lions still snap at the air.