Hymns For The Final Rite of Being.


Alessandra in the last carriage
birds of paradise, sickly on red seats
white train walls, condensating
ashes under nails,
“Ally…can you hear me?”
her toes are cringing
splashing in irrational pools of rain

Alessandra is singing.

whiskey burned throat, tongue not even hers
Why must she carry this end in her voice?

“Iirr kaaaaar , riet laaach, tsnai vullllll, Har strieeeeen….”

the density of our bodies is all wrong, but her voice, is too perfect. Tonalities destroying our world, unintentional.

she doesn’t know this will hurt, singing in his spellbound language like that.
it’s hurting the animals, minerals, seas, skylines.
such lullabies belong elsewhen and elsewhere. a much higher plane.
it’s near impossible for our cluttered, low dimensional species
to grasp this swan song
but still
Alessandra keeps singing.
Maybe she really wants to bring all of us there. Away from this tired earth.

I should never have showed her his face.

“Starrrr eierrrrrh, struuu, arhnnnn, vaaaaar, Lgaaaai, Orrrrr…”

every whispery line ruins our failed world, bit by bit; not by the hand of destruction but by the calm of his sleep song.
It’s hard to step through this current, this outward spreading sphere of offworld power
an activation by melodies she had heard in dreams.

I should never have shown her his vision.

Alessandra is crying blood.
Eyes replaced by black orbs.
Her voice, getting stronger, her flesh, growing weaker, our unified field, falling into vortex of Final Dreaming.

The Shining Man sits at the other end of the train.
As a sign, a signal, he’s holding the book I channeled from his master race.
A book no one was supposed to read or sing –
not for another hundred years.
He does not look at me. He slowly closes the book.
I understand.
Though it’s going to hurt me more than she was hurting our reality,
I understand.
Blood may be on my hands.

I should never have let her read the book.

Alessandra in the last carriage.
She’s in rapture.
Her heart is failing.
Humming those lines preceding crescendos.
She must be seeing The Resting Place. We are poised beneath it.
The train is slowing, photons, neurons, molecular structures breaking, firing.
Outside, I know our sun is dying.
Snow, falling on equator.
Slow moving lightning storms.
Predeath Gamma spikes.

Alessandra is swaying
lost in the waves of the last lullaby.

She’s taking all of us with her.
I cannot let her finish the Hymn.

The Shining Man had closed the book.
I look at her one last time.
Her blood will be on my tongue.
“I’m sorry, Ally. I really am.”

I call to mind the last word he taught me.
I Whisper what must be whispered.
The last word I wrote in their language.
The word that ends all words, all times, all things, and all beings.

Alessandra stops singing.

‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day24‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016prompt24‬


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s