Hypnos and Thanatos: The Embrace
Lynette Mejía
I wake to the sound of crows,
fog, the memory of dreams,
faint wisps of light and shadow, and all
those burning bridges stacked behind me
in neat, carbonized rows, only half-
aware of what was going on
around them.
It’s true; I may have wasted
away for a short time, haunting
the ghost of a life from which not
even photographs remain. I may
have stood poised on the edge of
murder a time or two, or suicide,
or whatever you call killing the undying
past. But I’m still here, aren’t
I, prepared to walk on water or through
doors; I’m still available now
and again for convocations with night
owls shuffling on like forgotten patients,
the chronically ill wearing the loose robes
of the damned.
My footprints hold on
to the memory of my passing, caught
in darkness though smudged a bit,
like a deliberation. Of course anyone
can follow, given the right
eyes to see and the left behind
things, the ones that still hold
carefully my scent. I leave
clues, sometimes, doodles in pitch
and carvings on trees. I leave
the sound of crows in the morning and I leave
this place, all places, measured
and found wanting.
Lynette Mejía writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror prose and poetry from the middle of a deep, dark forest in the wilds of southern Louisiana. You can find her online at www.lynettemejia.com.