You started like a whirling at the pit of a perceptive gut. Grey, open-skied clouds closing in. You stared dark and unblinking like an old-timer by the fire remembering mangled relics from a time that can never be touched again. . .But the madness lingers.

I saw you in the distance and my callow heart skipped at the thought of some soothing rain; you see these old gashes and scars, they burn, and only the sky, and the moon and the Gods in between can quiet the screaming.

So I twirled in the fading sunlight, in anticipation. But by the time the rickety circle completed around me, my pit matched yours, and there, our eyes met.

Soundless thunder.

The vibrations rattled your hoary clouds and my bones shook in a desperate prayer. You had found me.

Year. From the moment our eyes met, it was blood and smoke and an eternal scrimmage underplay.

Savage. You picked me up in your palm and made me look up in prayer to find ‘carnage!‘ painted across the heavens in breath-taking hemic hues.

But I fought you. I broke down the laws of the Universe and I breathed you in so I could spit you out like crippled phlegm- un-welcomed and unwanted.

Year. You rolled waves of madness in, and there, riding at the helm of the fleet was Alastor, and so my final battle began.

His demon arms reached and pulled and tested every gene passed down these generations; from father, to daughter, to hers.  You gashed out the sand bags and let the flood pour in, you. . . Emptied the cup.

And then you stood tall, Conductor with baton in hand taking control of it all- the keys, the drums, the colors and the sounds. Year.

Now I can’t find the music. I search deep and mad like a wordless poet, and the melody flickers lifelessly.

Look what you did to me.

You took everything. Your storm wiped clear the only past I knew and now I stand in the aftermath, cleaned. I walk back, and move in circles because I cannot find who I once was. These unpainted nails are smeared in dirt from the frantic dig for my roots, and I found none.

Year. Where do I go now. What anecdote from the past do I pull out to make sense of this.

Year, you bind everything in time. So I’ll give you this: I can package the grief for later, and time-table back to life. I can forgo the answers, eat the riddles. I can smoothen out the edges and make-believe a new canvas of this emptiness. . .

But Year. . . Who can tell me who I am?



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