I tear myself open, I sew myself shut. My weakness is that I care too much
I've walked close to Heaven's gates, I've tasted the sweet air above, felt the soft cloud lull me to sleep. When you have been cradled in the soft grip of death, of life's forgotten mercy. You long for it, the soft clouds that wrap you up in cotton and keep you safe. Those trumpets, those dear golden harps. If only, if only I could hear them. Could hear their beautiful song that beckons me to them, to the end, to the final.
But there is no final, and there is no end, at least not yet, not for me. I am here again. The earthy loam of autumn's grasp. Cold, against the frostbitten winds of a promised winter. My ghostly pelt shivers, fine, against the chill. I am not young, far from. I can feel the age creep in my bones, knitting together as one. Every movement causes ache, every shift of my crown, to gaze at the birds above, hurts.
I see them, those delicate avian creatures. They sing, I am sure, but never, never have I heard their beautiful song. It is the same as my children (all of them, all the dear things.) I have never heard their first laugh, their first call, even their first cry. And it hurts, it is a spear, driven into my very core. And it buries itself there, deeper and deeper with every aching thought of them. I wonder where they are. Where every steed I had lain next to (if only for a night.) are. I wonder of Hakeem. I wonder of Lykos. My dear son. My first son. The thought sits behind my eyes, like a burning blister. Hot, rampant as it takes to torrenting down my spine, every nodule releasing a sharp torrent of memory.
My pace is slow, laboured, as I seem to crawl with weary limbs over the dying grass of the meadow. My form almost illuminated in the sunshine as it shone down upon me. As ever present, the only thing that has stuck by me. the sunlight. The warmth. It truly never gets to the cold, frozen depths of my heart. Never. My teal eyes lift up to watch as the silhouettes of the birds fly above, I can only imagine their sweet song. I could never mimic it either. My songless mouth opens, wishing, hoping that one day I could release a song of my own. but the hope is fruitless.
Espeia. Nyryn. Lye. I wonder of the girls. I have never felt the love for them that I should. I know, I know it is selfish, foolish, to bring such a delicate thing into this cruel, cruel world, and leave them, without a sliver of love. But what use is the mare, with throbbing ears and a silent tongue?
Perhaps it would be different now. Perhaps.
l o c k e t
the deaf, the mute