Out of Ink

I fell asleep and in that spiral, I was awakened. A great whale lifted its head from the water of the sky and slowly, serenly, moved beneath the sky, which was the sea. All was reversed. A lie. The sight elicited awe at first but was soon displaced with a horror for which no word in any tongue could properly define. The whale disappeared beneath the sky sea. Sirens began to sound. Planes fell from the sky to explode below. Everywhere was chaos. I left the safety of my sanctuary, beckoned to do so by that Fish. To do something. I was ordered to movement. I walked among the chaos. I saw death, in all its forms. I saw them, tortured and torturing, without knowledge of their actions. I saw innocence in evil and evil in innocence.

A being flew in the sky. The thing had no flesh like you and I. It was something hideous. It laughed and reveled in the sickening sound of its victims. It cast down flaming bombs of chaos. It did not see me. Nor did the others. I watched and the chaos grew to a deafening roar. I was sickened by the crimes perpetrated, by the unholy laughter of the seven who stole that fertile womb to enslave. The floating being laughed again. Its eyes held no reason. All was a madness, a deafening roar that made me recoil. He threw another ball of flame, and when it landed I saw more tortured torturerers. So committed to the possession of demonic madness, he did not see the sun rising. Not any typical rising. Not in a nightmare. A final rising. A swift ascent to its throne in the sky sea. The Reveler’s party would soon end.

Time had come. I returned to the sanctuary. Already it was overrun by innocent and evil alike, but evil could not find shelter in the sanctuary. I sealed the sanctuary. I closed her curtains. I locked her doors.

And when satisfied, I sat with the Three and waited for the absolution prophesied. My counsel was interrupted when Death walked through the door. Unhindered by its robes and a scythe made dull by the final reaping, Death pointed in the room. One hid, hands covering his possessed mind. Death grabbed him by the neck, slammed him to the ground, and I turned from the judged one’s fearful shrieks. Death showed no mercy. He hacked with the dull blade and with each fall of the blade, the judged one’s terror diminshed until there was no more for Death to claim.

Then Death looked at me and pointed. Of what entitlement, of what doubt, or of what ego had I offended? Was I too much? Too soon? Too lacking in the self-assured vein he had once loved and cultivated? Then how not to feel honor that I should bear witness, seemingly alone? What entitlement lies in the solitude of truth? It is both honor and burden. It is to be loved and hated.

Though I have come to you plain, in plain speech, in every tongue, in every color, in every song, in every inspiration, you have not listened. How could I, a nobody, add anything of substance to a message as old as infinity? How then do you sing with your pen to inspire hope when all you can hear are the cries of the tortured? And in their cries, in their trials, they are distracted and cannot hear that Call. How then do you fight to save them when they hate you? How do you keep fighting that war when no one knows the war is even being fought, and for which they only see their champion Knight as their enemy?

Can my pen write a story loud enough to cover your nightmare with that precious balm, that covering of salvation?

In what way could my sword deliver Justice? My defense to Death was,

All I gave was of and from Source. Had I not been deaf in those days past, I would have bent the knee and offered my pen. I appeared for combat at the war’s end. My words echoed in the ether. Time moved on.

And all I could add

To all the love songs ever written

Was terror.

When all that was asked of me

All that was necessary



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