note #198

pale white
your skin tonight
reminds me of the shrouding fog
at dawn

note #197

she walks now - again - in whatever afterlife there is, even if it is none.

this is a truth.

note #196

the first year of the plagues the priests said it was god's divine punishment. they claimed it was a test of our faith and that those who succumbed were sinners. the second year the priest in our village burned down the church where the sick were being taken care of and ran into the woods yelling about demons coming for his soul.

they found his twisted body two weeks later, bloated and showing the tell-tale signs of sickness, neck at an unnatural angle from his fall down a small cliff.

slowly we returned to the old ways of our ancestors. the priest's god had not saved him and was by no means a mercy or comfort to us. the old gods, spirits, and creatures of lore were more certain and benevolent by far.

by the third year, when the spring rains brought with them news of yet more plague spreading, we barricaded the road and did not allow strangers into our village. we had fared better than most the previous years, but we refused to take any chances. while the rest of the world slowly died, we tried our hardest to persevere.

note #195

the fog lay across the city, deceptively cooling the air. the sun peaked through the buildings, rising above the hills to bring blistering heat to the day.

note #194

the walls shivered with the intensity of the nearby blast. she ran along the corridor, trying not to stumble in the dark as another blast caused the floor to tremble menacingly. a door opened and a man stepped out, looking around with bleary eyes.

run! she yelled at him, the city is under attack!

he stared at her a moment while another explosion sounded in the distance. where? he asked in a steady voice. there is nowhere to go. we could shelter in the basement, but then we would be trapped if the building fell.
she shook her head and continued past him, heading for the stairs and any way out.

note #193

prepare the bells to peal,
the drums to beat,
set out your mourning weeds.
stand the guard,
set the candles,
prepare the end to meet.
steep memories
like flower blooming tea
to soothe the ache of loss.
set the table,
stop the clocks,
cover all the mirrors.
remember the dead
for the life they lived,
the person they were,
and the love they give.

note #192

those dark secrets
that seep out of the cracks
and turn your thoughts black
with the decay of a lifetime.