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Bone Carver 11: Epilogue


The stars embrace my soul. I am led onwards through their light. And I go willingly into the darkness pooling at their centers; knowing well the sacrifice I am making by opening myself up to them.

        - The Words of God
Nothing is the same anymore. Memory has built its temple on ancient ground. But this is only to honor, not to make, the sacredness of this place within my being.
This place, this frontier town on the desert with its streets that once ran rich with blood, where the dogs once played with their bones, and we all danced under the shadows of the dark wings wheeling overhead.
I walked into this place before the season of the frogs and crickets, even before the dogs. I came in the days of the Miller and his Daughter and the long summer nights filled with the rumbling of the millstone over the seeds. 
I walked into this place and once again knew the mysteries of joy and ecstasy.

The answers were all there for me. I held them in my hands, staring into her eyes reflected in the water. She, this being, this angel, who burned my black skin blacker with her kisses and desperate prayers. This being who turned the key inside of me and let the gate swing free.
These memories that turn through me, these thoughts that remind me, carry with them the tastes and smell of the abyss. A dry wind over old bones, singing. I am at their mercy. I listen to this ancient song that caught me once and will catch me again. And I return.

I move like a ghost over the empty streets, drifting in the dust, collecting all the ancient skulls and broken bones. I return again and again to the old wooden shack and decorate it with these totems of my soul. It was I who did this, I say to each hollow stare, recalling the faces I once knew so well.
I move inside and sit at the scarred table. I wait. I mark the time by carving the meat from bones. 
Sooner than I remembered, you arrive. There you are in the doorway, a shadow against the light outside. You hesitate, turn your head, and then see me. 
I say to you:
Cumere boy. Been waitins fo you.
Perhaps the sane act would be for you to deny all of this, to not come in and listen to my weird stories. But it is too late, a memory of something lost long ago pull you forward into my shack of bones. 
You begin to remember who you truly are and what your path is. Mysteries from the depths of your soul come alive again and begin to sing. You sit down across from me and listen to the bone’s sweet song as I carve the meat away from its bright surface, separating the dream from the real once again. Once again setting the bones out before you on the table. 

And so, these days are indeed as they always have been: haunting in their evocations, insane in their meanings. My dreams, my memories, my every waking thought, calls you ever deeper into that frontier town on the desert, to the rivers of blood, to the bone shack, and to my words, my dust filled words and voice, the voice, the pure voice of god.

  
A skull full of seeds and the bone’s sweet song reminding me once again of who I am.



 



This work is licensed by S. Casey, Bonesy Jones & L.B.D.L. under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License.




***

The stars embrace my soul. I am led onwards through their light. And I go willingly into the darkness pooling at their centers; knowing well the sacrifice I am making by opening myself up to them.

- The Words of God


Nothing is the same anymore. Memory has built its temple on ancient ground. But this is only to honor, not to make, the sacredness of this place within my being.

This place, this frontier town on the desert with its streets that once ran rich with blood, where the dogs once played with their bones, and we all danced under the shadows of the dark wings wheeling overhead.


I walked into this place before the season of the frogs and crickets, even before the dogs. I came in the days of the Miller and his Daughter and the long summer nights filled with the rumbling of the millstone over the seeds. 

I walked into this place and once again knew the mysteries of joy and ecstasy.


The answers were all there for me. I held them in my hands, staring into her eyes reflected in the water. She, this being, this angel, who burned my black skin blacker with her kisses and desperate prayers. This being who turned the key inside of me and let the gate swing free.


These memories that turn through me, these thoughts that remind me, carry with them the tastes and smell of the abyss. A dry wind over old bones, singing. I am at their mercy. I listen to this ancient song that caught me once and will catch me again. And I return.


I move like a ghost over the empty streets, drifting in the dust, collecting all the ancient skulls and broken bones. I return again and again to the old wooden shack and decorate it with these totems of my soul. It was I who did this, I say to each hollow stare, recalling the faces I once knew so well.


I move inside and sit at the scarred table. I wait. I mark the time by carving the meat from bones. 

Sooner than I remembered, you arrive. There you are in the doorway, a shadow against the light outside. You hesitate, turn your head, and then see me. 

I say to you:

- Cumere boy. Been waitins fo you.



Perhaps the sane act would be for you to deny all of this, to not come in and listen to my weird stories. But it is too late, a memory of something lost long ago pull you forward into my shack of bones. 


You begin to remember who you truly are and what your path is. Mysteries from the depths of your soul come alive again and begin to sing. You sit down across from me and listen to the bone’s sweet song as I carve the meat away from its bright surface, separating the dream from the real once again. Once again setting the bones out before you on the table. 




And so, these days are indeed as they always have been: haunting in their evocations, insane in their meanings. My dreams, my memories, my every waking thought, calls you ever deeper into that frontier town on the desert, to the rivers of blood, to the bone shack, and to my words, my dust filled words and voice, the voice, the pure voice of god.



A skull full of seeds and the bone’s sweet song reminding me once again of who I am.