For ages, this mind has known only a deep sleep and the sound of silence
Entombed in a preserving chamber during a time of violence

The last grain of etherium joins the rest at the bottom of the glass
Ancient magic begins to flow, lighting the runes carved into the sarcophagus long ago

Deep within
The mind stirs
Coming back to consciousness

Pulling away the cobwebs covering the senses and remembering what it’s like to breathe
Dusting off the memory of a cool stone coffin… Is that what is felt underneath?

A faint blue glow brings life to the eyes, telling the mind it is time to rise

Right… it’s been a while, Motor Cortex

Muscles twitch, joints creak and limbs push on the cover of stone
Stone that doesn’t move a millimeter

Oh… I remember

Fingers find the glowing rune on the side
A hundred more runes come to life, and the lid opens wide

The eyes adjust and perceive
A small room filled with old air and covered in the dust of time
And showing the way out, leading to the door
A trail of runes, one by one, in a line

Okay legs

Hands meet a door that has not been met in over a hundred lifetimes
The mind is sure, it is time for fresh air
A return to life, one where the sun shines

Here we go

The seal is broken, the door opens, the dust of time is stirred
Hair flutters, clothes billow, skin feels…

Ah, my old friend, I am so glad you are still here.





It has been a long, long time.

am i humbled
            as i cup hands to the drip
                                              machine
  of _wantinglessness

am i listening to the horsehair-plaster hard enough

to remember
her hematite cough
                     [ of love ]

strewing gun.mites across the room
like seeding the sky with flower-futures


concatenations of ****** dread
casket basket
            rumor of
            the next thing.

scab fingers
ring diggers

shun mirror
you skim new menisci
                     off of
                       the
    locals’ strange traditions
like parsing down handmedowns
                  into piles of
keep.              and.              get the **** away
from me.


       like the stories cryptids tell
             their children about us
  ( so that they don’t stray too far out of the
                           forest )

unapproving dissimulatiors
                yawp
                  and
concentrate
on etching
pathways for the unendeared
             amidst the
moon.trodden regicides
   of that which is loosed unto the
   aether


footholds, findless.
in pursuit of esper footfalls within the ambulatory shroud of
             that which becomes
                      instant .

a
wisp of the homepointed . a
flick of the
wrist-grab, willfully
a
  fissure
in
  fissured things.

the scramble-dark iris
the         way
that hipbones throw : music
        as wielded by sorceress,

wild in trembling macrodactyl      
                 prestidigitations
                               .








the grandmother of conifers keeps vigil ,
                        as always