Twilight on the endless steppes, as the sun hazed out into starlight, the tall, golden wheat whipping in a cool, early spring wind. The endless horizon offered no where to hide from the eyes of Father The Sun or Mother The Moon. Up in the sky they would always see me.
A lifetime ago I had been a young man here, a soldier at war. It was all for the homeland. All for all the helpless depending on us back home. To stop the mad, demonic man coming from the east, like the sun.
The eye cracked, and out came fire and screams and the hateful stench of flesh left to rot. We’re all ugly when we’re dead.
Like a steel blade, I was forged and hardened in flames, and I knew what I had to do, and I knew for whom I fought.
I fought for her. Her angelic light kept me warm as the winter stole away so many, more than flames and fire. Cold is patient, like Mother The Moon, who wants her children back home again.
Her angelic light was real and decadent, and I knew we would both make it to summer, when the demonic men would be cast out again, the possessing spirits pacing in the underworld for another time.
The war ended. She was not there. The light was a mischievous spirit who used me for it’s own ends. Father The Sun had claimed her while she bathed. She was an angel with him. Never again for me.
And she danced up in the sky with Father, having forgotten the realm of weight and flesh. She did not even remember our kiss. Before the war, we had sat by the river, slim and silver. We had been enchanted, somehow.
Enchantment leaves scars.
She had kissed me. The last hurrah for innocence. It was warmth without lust. Passion without hunger. Peace in a lover’s touch.
Enchantment breeds hunger for more. More magic. More release from weight. More wonders to soothe a broken heart.
I became as dissolute as any drunkard. I chased that moment forever, with any girl who’d welcome me, into her arms or bed.
Nothing else mattered.
All the while she danced, having for free what I got in dregs and ruined rags. She was with Father, and she was adored and made weightless.
Old, with nothing to show for it, but the words made as hymns to lover, pale moonlight reflected from her in the sun. Words made to capture a moment, a high. So much useless amber.
Old and tired, and out here on the steppes, where Father and Mother can both see me as they come halfway after the divorce. They see me. They see what I have done.
Old, out here on the steppes as that bitter wind flows and cries and gets deeper into you skin and bones than any dream, lover or whore, to the very place all light is kept.
Old, and it all left a crystal tower that is wonderous, but whose foundation in sand is washed away in a single hour. What is an hour to Father? What is an hour to Mother?
And Mother comes down for me. The trick she played for her own magic. Making me love the girl Father claimed. Taking me away to be in the cold.
I’ll remember her in the sun. She will be blind to me in the moon. The weight will drag me to the bottom of the sea.