Lamentation

[Elven Doritos]

Beware that cousin death, who makes himself a stranger until he needs of you—his tidings never welcome, his presence tolerated only out of courtesy.  Where once his visits inconvenienced me, I now watch closely for his shadow

My daughter takes her first breath.  And then, she screams – the aches of bones and blood, the cold terror of the world, the razor-light flourescence – how she must long for the comforts of her kingdom long abandoned

I am here, in the bones of the leviathan – the empire of my own making – until the sands sweep over my creation – I dig and dig and dig, for this mighty beast was once my craft – oh, to be a god again, immortal, all-consuming, all-creating, who with snap of finger can reorder worlds themselves—

My daughter takes her first breath.  And then, I scream – I fear – I dread – I dared to hope, my hope turned sour like the breath of wine-drunk lingerers who creep across the floor – I have no armor, no sword, no army, no power to protect her – when all the world is swords and slashing, how to raise her righteously?

Sister Sorrow grey-streaked dreaming dancing under eyelids of almighties – she with widow-peaks visits only offers when cracks of tombs have relinquished her, have revenged themselves upon her spirit—she knows I am not real; she knows I am not sorry; she knows I am not here

My daughter takes her first breath.  How can this be?  What father proceeds from fatherlessness?  The coward's blood runs in my veins; and so it must in hers.  What if I, like he, am hollow – what if I, like he, would run? What chaos bubbles inside me?  What marks has that claw left?  What wounds?  What weapons?

Why has my father forsaken me?  Do I bear the stain of his curse?

A crack of black lightning as I splay myself again – manufacture the next model of my mask – and know that life itself is fleeting – the dim candle in the unlit vault – our life a pyre, a signal-beam by which our children light their way – how I long to be a forest fire

Life presents itself – and so I wear its raiments, I sing its hymns, I pray to empty altars – and I fix my mask onto my broken clockwork.  For must we not be who we should, and not who we are?

I hold my daughter in my arms – joyful and afraid – and limp toward the answer

[Pareidollhouse]

So this is you, and your actual daughter? I mean, congrats, man, but, at the same time... damn.

Thanks for sharing it with us.