The light piercing the window peregrinates through my shadowy memories. It's hazy. My head pounds like a festive drum. A fleeting memory flashes, an anachronism that's quixotic. I try to use complex language to mask my shame, ashamed as I am of my limerence for my blood sister. Yesterday, I crushed her desires, silencing them amidst the soothing susurrus of the trees, a secret pose, covert and hidden. Now, the ebulient joy of yesterday has given way to her stained blood beside me, her nape clutching the bedsheets as she snores. That's why I know I am destined to fail.

~Mikelson

Do not mind what a poet tells you,
it is an ellipsis, find the missing truth.
The title of an elder is not an umbrella
to shield a child's head from life's heavy rain.

When the storm comes, the child's head becomes
as empty as the facade of a hollow title.
Do not deceive when tomorrow's dawn foretells
the fate that awaits, like a burning forest's spell.

In that inferno, the bandits of deceit
are consumed by the flames, their power defeated.
Nothing lasts forever, for the world itself
is a fragile paperclip, destined to be folded into nothingness.

~Mikelson

The weight of failure
Is enough to bring down a horse,
Or drain the ocean of its blood.

And life might seem better,
If it were shaped around
Avoiding any moment,
Where you might feel
That weight again.

But that weight,
And tremendous pressure
On your shoulders,
Is part of your journey, and
Our world won’t be whole
If you don’t try again.

We saved the world. We threw the last bomb into the crowds of rotting bodies and decaying brains. We crossed one final street and shut the gates behind us. We were safe. Or so I thought.

We celebrated—a fleeting, fragile moment of peace. Amid the laughter and relief, all I could do was watch him. He was in the center of it all, embracing everyone who had gathered around him. Then, I saw it—a trickle of dark liquid seeping from his jacket.  

My heart stopped. My joy shattered into panic, and my lips quivered as I whispered in fear. The world has already been burned, and yet—burned even more as my body slowly shaken in agony.

“No. That can’t be. Oh God, no—please!”  

I ran to him, my hands trembling as I lifted his jacket. The truth was undeniable. It was there all along. He had been bitten.  

I froze, panic gripping my chest. I choked until I could not breathe anymore.

He didn’t speak a word. He didn’t have to. His eyes met mine, and I saw everything. He knew. He had known all along. He had insisted we go to Churchill Street first, pushing through the pain, enduring the wounds inflicted into his tired body. He wanted to make sure we were somewhere safe before it all happens. Somewhere where the night isn’t a nightmare
—and then turn into one of those lowly rotting bodies we used to aim our guns with.

“How dare you, Sid!” I choked on the words as tears streamed down my face. Before I could say more, he collapsed to the ground.  

“Can you sing me my favorite song?” he whispered, his voice soft and strained.  

I opened my mouth to protest, to beg, but his pleading gaze stopped me. I nodded, holding back sobs, and began.

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful  
Beautiful boy  
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful  
Beautiful boy”

As I sang, he reached into his pocket and handed me a pair of eyeglasses I had been wanting for so long. They weren’t my usual prescription, but I took them, holding them to my chest as if they were a piece of him.  

I cupped his face and pressed my lips to his, tears mingling with our fleeting touch. Then I lay beside him on the cold ground, holding him close as I finished the song.

“Goodnight, Sid,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “See you in the morning.”  

He smiled, content, and mouthed the three words we used to say to each other before every battle.  

“Sleep now, my beautiful boy,” I said, my voice trembling with sorrow. I kissed his forehead and whispered a final prayer for him as his eyes slowly closed.