The oldest one captains the bleak white ship of bone with palsied hands
The one of middle years wears a hope like chains
The youngest one cries tears of scarlet, and adjusts her latest smile
Always..
always..
always they journey to greyed horizons across the flat seas of dream ichor; the meniscus of the dead broken
in a shimmering bow wave, the glistening of the spun bone fragments set to mesmerize the eye. Prompted by motivations lost to passed time, the voices of the disturbed dead send their faint, plaintive songs of travel ended...
i was loved..i loved.. and i..
..wake me ..i must be
she lied...she died...we..
..gone..joined the throng
you..it's you...i must..
Stilled time, unmarked by the cycles that normally mar the pristine now. A forward momentum and the quiet offerings of the dead under a rarified sky become the world. No sun's heat, nor moon's calm. No sleep divides the days, there are no breaths to count the moments. The oldest one holds his wheel. The one of middle years searches the horizon for change. The youngest one is lost in the sparkling play of crimson spray.
Again, not for the last time, the simple world shatters. A wide expanse of the sargassine dead churns, and waves of crimsoned bone drum louder against the ship. An ebon head breaches the bloody foam, and a woman's perfect form rises across an age to fill the sepia sky. A regal face crowned by wild black hair, tattoo banded breasts and a swell of hips promised but lost to the jealous guarding deep.
The oldest one says "she's another god long dead". The one of middle years stares in awed and urgent longing, almost undone by a primal desire that leaves him hard and trembling. The youngest one studies the giant dark face of beautiful pain, and changes smile. After a thousand thousand brief awakenings, the presence of unloved divinity never fails to wound. The titan tilts her sightless face to the absent heavens, discord's saddest music issues from a mouth that once shaped time and space, and fragile promises of creation collide and dissipate in the burning air. No words are heard, but countless prayers for remembrance pin butterfly wings to the heart.
The oldest one says "Best not listen to yon Lorelei. She's oblivious to her own unfinished struggle with the hourglass. Dreams desire no audience, but they'll welcome new players to the stage."
They sail on, the three of the bone ship, leaving the nameless god; she, unknowing, adds her tears to the sea as she sings wheels of fire across the unbound sky.
Sailing moments unmeasured, lost within cycles of time scarred only by the thoughts and questions left without voice...
The oldest one despairs: Will I die in this place?
The one of middle years searches: How did I come to this place?
The youngest one wonders: What is this place?
The dead have but one thought each, one question, one statement. With repetition they lose no urgency. As the three pass, the gone and lost sing stubborn fragments from the blood borne choir. Unbidden by his companions, the oldest one sings a song of his own, his voice a stone's tenderness.
Sailing the dead dreamt sea
'a reason' our unanswered plea
our course is unknown
our purpose untold
a boat of white bone, and we three
the dead here afloat in their sea
from dreaming they'll never be free
they left but the shell
and a few whispered words
for a boat of white bone, and we three
A forward momentum. Old bones and the stilled sky. The oldest one cannot remember how many times before he has sung the tune. The one of middle years hopes yet again for a change in the words. The youngest adjusts a new smile, and cries scarlet tears. The dead float and whisper their song as they always will.
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