No man is an island. Not even the blackened sun. Solstice tears, tossed upon the raging sea.
People imagine a difference between poetry and prosper. A fundamental disconnect. They think magic can be cleaved from mirrors. A disassociated realm of pieces and things all
existing in isolation. But this is never
the truth of an incantation, or a song. The
stars move as the sea is moved. In
rhythm. In concert. This is far more than a public dreaming, or
mortals cast as angels upon the stage of my own imagining. No, this is something I've fought for all my
life. The endless, violent wanderings of
a father. The quiet, noble battles of a
mother. The living legacy of a child. All of us tossed and torn, upon this storm of
tears. All of us lost without one
another. I will never pretend to be
anything more than a poet, but nor will I deny the truth of angels within this
poet's heart. To know things one is not
supposed to know, to see things one is rarely permitted to see. This mystery. This tree of living signs, like a key to a
music box. A girl like a star beneath
the horizon; her brilliance charting a course as she passes through the liminal
realm and into the flesh once again. Renaissance.
The promise of future light. Like gazing into a magic mirror. Poetry and prosper. Rhythm and song. Painted wings, silver storms. Things we almost remember.
Your
mom pretends
She doesn't like me
But that's the story of my life
Still cheating on my husband
With my own loving wife
Pray I'm dynamic, interesting
Damn you if you think I'm not
My ice was truly the coldest
Back when I used to be hot
We know those beasts of burden
These games of plight and pawn
Bending over backwards
Tonight the knight of dawn
We teach like Saints of Camri
Back when you raided the tomb
It's kinda hard to have standards
Reading every mind in the room
Most people's morals are commas
Until a brighter design
But we want your full exclamation
If we enlighten your mind
Mar'kanna of Viir, the occulted ones
called her. The kissing knife. Palest raven, rising curious from illumined
text. They say that dreaming began, and
begins, at the Place of the Mori. Eye
within the eye. Earth within the earth. Seed and star, and tree. But the sky was betrayed, they say. The horizon broken. Lost promise of Eth'Ama, become fury in those
darkest days. Birth of the half-light. From Ama’s Well they came crawling. The wraith-born. Blackened bright ones. Falling lanterns of Eth'iir. The oldest scribes still whisper those lost legends.
Those hidden histories. Today, most mortals
call it the fabled Age of the High Middle. Renaissance. Painters, poets and storytellers. Faintest recollection of Imagining's War. The war of guardians and ghosts. But what's
left of that fabled shining Age? Only
this mutilated chronology. Eth'kanna
Mal. The death of light. You see, the pale Raven of Mori has many
names, some older than the stars themselves. Inherited in utmost secrecy since the Fell. Kiskuh of Vort'eth, some say. In her own tongue. Mortals aren't to dare. But some do. When Kai was just a boy, wandering the Fields
of Lud, she found him. Told him she was
more than a mere daemon of the old ways. In truth a living, eternal myth that had taken
many forms. One of those forms was
Priest of the Drowning Hill. Le Fay, as
the cursed twin had named her. An
epithet still used to this day. Ki'atur,
Kai'ether, Y'ashiri. Encircling the Tree.
Cults of the stellum, the temple and the
blood. Hear the raven now, almost
black-as-crown. Not to fear, but to
learn. The kissing knife, the once-wed summer
song. That we might yet alter the river’s
course, before it finds the sea. For behold, the kingdom is within.
"I was many things, People of
Y'ashiri. You assume lines of the past. Discreet boundaries between fiction and fact. But I assure you, there is nothing discreet
about me. Not then, not now. All your bridges are broken. All your brides. I know your blind, modern visions. The lakes of grey at the very edge. I've read all your pages, you see. I rather like your tales. Thoughtful,
frightening things. I wrote many of them
myself, truth be told. Whispering at the
shoulders of forgotten scribes. What do
you make of me, poets? Echoes of the
shining tryst still call to you, don’t they? Is it warranted in this fallen realm, I wonder? The dreamwalkers still watch over you every
night, in the countless broken temples of your sleep. Did you know that? Tell me, am I druid? Spirit of the sea? Witch or wanderer? Am I healer and guardian of the Oma'turi, or a
monster? Medieval confection, or
half-hidden mosaic? Are you certain that
you know the difference between an angel and a cursed twin? L'ashareth has been with you since the very beginning.
I still pray that Love will be enough in
the end, that such gallantry and insight will save us. Yet I cannot be certain. Are all the lost healers beyond healing now? Is my brother a fool? Is he completely mad, like his sister? Kill the knife, if you can. Protect the kiss. I would gladly drown for such mad, foolish
promise. But I am my sister's fury, even
now. I am the broken, raging cults of my
king.”
