Invocation

Today I invoke the thousand names of the Imperfect God, I, bone-weary now, dog-tired, absent of fire -- She healing nothing, a broken statue in a razed courtyard, no comfort save a question in her Gaze, no hand outstretched merely lifted in a pensive Mould, a strewn fabric of decomposing lies, a Poem blasted into vague allegory.

Source: Wikimedia Commons CC BY 4.0, "Park City Utah Historical Wood Cabin," by D. Ramey Logan

Far away the trumpets bleat with diminishing Fury.  What whispers did you bring, disguised as dark echoes of a dead paradise?  What promises did you break so you could claim none ever existed?  Was it reckless, was it the rock founded by your personal ideations, your Remus and Romulus?  Did it save you like you expected?  Did it civilize your heart?

You introduced these vessels, rough-hewn, carved from an emergent rock face.  A frenzied artisan at work, burning to convey what was already known a thousand other ways, but each new iteration distinct nonetheless.  The dexterity, sourced from your own veins, the images graven and overpowering, you were your own instrument and your own ideal.

Now the cabin is noiseless and disturbing, like a serenity taken too far.  Something that could be a bird skips across the water, catching nothing.  Then it begins, the branches scratch against the roof, the breeze flutters the curtains with a gentle caress.  I hear your name muffled within the old millwork, not a ghost so much as a trapped memory.

I am looking for you there.  This name, Floating in the mist now.  How long should I give chase?  What is too soon?  What is too late?

Answer me.