The bat eats the fly and I still eat the

                sun.

Hear the Drums of the Dead as they beat

that

tak tak tak

of our truths.

Glomdoring truths.

 

The beetle chews the dead and I still gnaw on

                memories.

Motherless child of the regal and the blighted,

I think so often of her presence. Not Her presence. But hers.

The Wyrd coddles the orphaned, one hopes.

 

The wasp mixes the bark with spittle and I still build

                nests.

Swathed in Mother Night, I come back in trembling steps

to the base of that grand Tree with the starless dusk

in my eyes and that one burning truth.

Home. Home. This is home.

 

The spider weaves a trap and I still knit together

                lives.

As silent as these prayers to Nocht, my tongue trips

up when it must admit such failure. The merciless

Heart of Darkness still beats and clicks like a death-clock,

informing me of that absence.

Every monarch falls. Even mother’s blood thins with time.

Night! Be eternal, for another loss and I shall fade as

the dread-morning dew.