It was a slow death, undergoing the madness of a mental observation far below, and we, the mediators, caught in the web between darkness and darker still, stood stoney-faced and grim in the midst of the end. All eyes stared in horror as the milky life-light began to drain from the orb in a top-down effect. This earthly landscape, in a hesitant manner, crept into nightshade, and dimly reflected the morphed face, the pallor. Our sacred grounds, now devoid of every humble and loyal shadow, gave way. With a tremble, the earth echoed the low murmurs and raging rumblings of frenzied natives as they watched the scene through naked eyes. The souls of the dead lying in wait on the morbid disc stared back in turn. With a wicked longing for rebirth, their spirits moved, mirroring our dismay. The gloom of impending doom deepened the chasm between observer and observed. The pin-pricked holes emboldened themselves to shine on through the veil evermore brightly, and with a higher glory than ever before.
Primitives unleashed, all anew in virgin fright,
gazed at the last remaining sliver of light
as it shivered and quaked, and disappeared from sight
The ruddy corpse of Mother Moon frozen in Time, covered in ash as dust turned to rust from the inside-out, bid a final farewell to all who dwell below, and we on bended knee, returned the solemn vow, met halfway, mingled amongst lost thoughts, and absorbed the cold brand of magic in the last sparkling note. Thus, we repeated it forever with the sound of one voice, a single vibration. The hum itself was never heard again, only sensed, and lightly felt in the soul.
*
© Keith Alan Watson
Uncle Tree's House 