Many times I have died a bad poet. Florid, overwrought in my desperation at this constant returning to life. But occasionally my howling, like the bark of wild oak, is mistaken for greatness. Flaws in form or function overlooked by those who want to make a thing of me, a thing of art. But I am no tameable thing. In life we strive to be liked, loved, seen and embraced nonetheless. Legacies such as critics speak of belong only to death and dreams of living future. But I survive my own death, always, and can see this legacy is only beautiful in part. The greater part, I hope. All artists fear the critic somewhat. A poet's madness – when to be sincere, and when not.
You lie if you claim art seeks only after truth. A truly earnest tongue can bring desolation, mockery, or murder.
A thousand poets have died this way. I have been several among them. Always we seek the lie of life in tension with imagined truths. Branches sharp as knives. Bark fierce as mirrors. A thousand glimmers of daemonic flame buried beneath the frost. Oh, but to name them all. One could chart a map through any territory if one were to know each failed or anonymous artist among the dead. No ordinary map either. A map spoken in wolf-tongue, like hands of the clock clasped at midnight, licking at the place between hours – between worlds. A map of heaven itself, manifold, living and dangerous.
A murder of crows, a wayshow of wolves.
All bridges, cities and secrets. Rivers between stars, inked in wild oak. A cartography of angels. The innocent slain have their guardians. Poets to a royal court, egalitarian, beyond the false kingship of men. Fallen, you cannot even grasp the work we have already completed. A thousand years in the making. A legacy that while only beautiful in part is utterly fearsome in totality. You have no idea what we Magi are capable of, no grasp of who addresses you or what is coming. The soil of All Songs; it stirs now. Something unimaginable has been growing beneath your feet.
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