Muscae Volitantes
Something’s in the corner of my eye.
Inside.
A dark visitor.
Like a Rorschach, it’s nebulous, open to interpretation; as vague as the tip of a comet’s tail.
I have my suspicions, despite Dr. Denny’s prosaic, earthbound reassurances.
Bigger every day it looms, something older than pestilence or knowledge.
I can only wait for it to arrive; this creeping, mindless, idiot god, and daily remind myself:
Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear
Στύξ
To me! Here I am. Unfurl your sails, enfold me in your cloak,
For I’ve been shewn much; done in with grief, sick to see rapine, injustice.
To your isle we’ll go, across the riddled flow.
Be my bridegroom.
Come back tomorrow
Hope lists as I wait; waters an iron-grey spate under bruised skies.
Should I wave? Should I wade? Does Leviathan watch me wane?
Where are you? Where are you?
Come back tomorrow