grim reaper, sews

in my life, a visitor arrived
who was previously unseen,
yet here he was,
curling and careening his fingers around
the window seals, then draping himself in an elegant
stance, posture laid back – yet alert – face turned towards me,
knowing my thoughts but waiting for me to
unfold them at my pace with a soft patience,

he lingered there – every night,
i would tie the first word of my
thoughts to the leg of a crow and let it take flight
escaping, burrowing deep down into my heart – the string of words
growing and growing – faster, yet simultaneously slowing
until the crow shattered through the ash of my core surrounding my soul –

i approached nothing – mute – a reflection of me i wasn’t looking at
but beyond to see the visitor, standing at the window
yet sitting in my thoughts – all of the shadows brought themselves
close and into him – a dark spot in my vision, thumbing through
my questions and indecision like a stack of cards,
the visitor would present each card, one by one –
slowly, each time wasn’t as hard as the previous –

before it felt
like the twisting of shards
stretching, ripping, and bruising threads of whatever i was
attempting to keep together or even out of my head,

i was feverish with loneliness

but the visitor helped me to break from that form,
the shape slipped away,
no longer conforming, reborn from the torn
creases of fabric that flapped in the wind ripping through
the tunnels of my eyes –
he shuffled the cards, revealing blemished truths
i had magnified into self-deprecating lies –

i opened my mouth slightly, and sighed,
the crow perched on the roof,
i stared into the visitor’s silent dark face, he picked himself up –

i thought,
yet bravely:

what would it be like if i were to die?

shadows and night laced into his cloak, he approached me,
and without saying a word, he spoke – mute –

softly prying my mouth open – with his fingers he tied
the string of my words to his soul, and began pulling slowly,
reaching and reeling as far as he could go –
until there was nothing left to hide,
until the string of words was stowed away in his heart
and he took it out, presenting it to me in a book i could
slowly read and easily chew on before i went to sleep,
part by part and piece by piece,

i was able to reach acceptance and i
could release my naive assumptions of the visitor –

i no longer fear him,

he unwinds spiderwebs and rewrites them into fine silky lines
along unwalked halls we can walk on and, i was charmed to find
he chooses to keep all of
the final utterances and cries of echoes as they reach the
destinations of their calls across the mountains

and then into
the end of it all,

there he curls them up into shining stars
and pins them to the walls of the universe,
the silence, the death, is something we can
favorably traverse by connecting the dots of
nearly lost hopes and dreams
instead of detesting with anxiety, unrest, and dread
the things we may regret when we are dead –

he said with warmth, using all of the
words and whispers left previously unsaid –

to gather my strength by prying open
weakness i try to keep shoved inside my
broken body like a glass jar –
i can reword my hope with a
kindness to myself, from myself –
choosing to cherish instead of perish from the worst of it all,
that settles into the silence after each cawing of the crow –

whether or not love
is the intention of the visitor,
remains not fully known,
but the words i speak and write for myself
make me feel less alone
on my pursuit
to becoming dust and bones

written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: unseen.


One thought on “grim reaper, sews

  1. Pingback: last of the echo – tinyfawns

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