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A Ghost in Meaning

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Oh, bury my mother, pale and slight,

bury my father with his eyes shut tight!


Words in their head, loudly rumbling alongside the scurrying sound of fleeing orange creatures. They fled swiftly, carefully, and yet without measure, getting caught underfoot and meeting the edge of a sharp nail and bursting instantly. They dribbled like water from foul-smelling walls, providing not life, but death, like an incantation torn apart.


Bury my sisters two by two,

and then when you're done, let's bury me toooo!


Why did they follow? Why cast themselves into danger at the sound of the simple tap of footsteps, small as can be? They were the youngest in the cavern, even more so than these droplets of dew, a veritable newborn amongst the burning rot as it melded forth and became anew. The younglings seemed to scatter behind in an effort to protect, or, perhaps, to keep them under influence; as if there was any way not to follow.


Ohh, bury the knight with her broken nail,


The pale ore was gone, heavy and heavier with its weight on their back, barely clutched in sticky hands were remnants of hope all lost to time. The nest faded alongside them, grey stone turning brighter only for the land to die in all the heat it made.


bury the lady, lovely and pale!


The gardens faded, the pyres were ever lite without purpose, the lanterns faded slower and slower until no glow was left; dead insects in a cage without a door. Fire grew as dreams weaved into nothing but Her. Their sparks drew no gazes but their own, once, but their body was too weak to make the journey back any longer, so here it stayed, with what was once claimed to be their love.


Bury the priest in his tattered gown,


They saw them once, approaching the caverns and whistling until it echoed down to even the driest of wells. They listened like they always had to ghosts, without hope, only the slightest conviction that love would not damper when they were gone. Burn the father, feed the child.


then bury the beggar with his shining croooown!


Yet, there they were, crying Her stories and His tears, as if torn between two gods, the only comfort the briefest of echoes from the instruments above. They quieted the buzzing in their mind, so hot and piercing as it cracked open their mask and threatened to seep into all they valued, all they had hoped to protect, to save.


Ohh, bury the vessels in the abbys below,


Here they were all the same, as if it had meant nothing when the smallest of hands, when the bloodied hands of a child of the void had forced their way into reckoning. The cuts burned, leaking out their essence until it was born anew to match, haunting them with words they couldn’t ever say.


Bury the wyrm died ages ago!


They left their kin behind, and maybe they’ve never quite forgive themself.


A shining creator, his dreams and his light,


Loss and love so intermingled there was never a chance to escape, much less fight back and escape circumstance. Not when Her voice soothed and demanded, giving calm in exchange for sacrifice and coating their blade in horrid memories.


Let him be consumed by our new knight!


Memories of her, when they cut her down and prayed to no one, and heard humming in their ears ever since.


Oh, bury my mother, pale and slight,


Memories of him, when they watched in echoes their descent, and felt the crack of their body as it hit the dried basin’s bottom.


bury my father with his eyes shut tight!


Memories of her, when she cut them down, and her hands came to grasp their body and demand it not to end.


Bury my sisters two by two,


Memories of them, when their voice came alive, and begged for that end to be given away.





                      you're done, let's bury me toooo!


And, in a flash, they disappeared, bleeding into the song until it too became silent, and the Ghost finally gave in, and embraced Her until she changed the truth.

No voice to cry suffering.