Work Text:
there it is—
an unmistakably familiar face.
when the fabric of the tent ripples
are those illusions, or reality?
shall you pin the blame for it on your paranoia
or the wind, shrieking like a siren?
seasickness is sometimes an unwelcome guest
but always is when one’s feet are planted on the ground.
the forgotten notes of a lute drift aimlessly;
thunder forces its way
through the solid air in resounding beats
one beating heart
one sinking ship.
there are—
heavy clouds, torrents in the sky
hounds devouring and claiming
lights flickering and burning within
each man’s own gasping tent
victims.
there is—
the northern star, hidden within
a shuddering hand
a constricting ribcage in the night
and one bag of spilled coins
regretting.
there is no—
rhythm to follow when breathing in
warmth. the long journey is grim
and cold, every man a candle to his own
doubt
behind you, dancing in dull shades
trembling,
contagious,
the tent pinches the candlelight.
shade laves the parchment with a slobbering tongue
a shaking palm comes to rest on the desk
the tent seizes it.
at once, cold is doused out with gleaming fire.
at once, your eyes do not strain
watching
the destruction of mundane things
warming
pulsing blood—
unremarkable.
fire transfixes with glistening white canines
and smoldering black imprints
down a wooden collarbone
across pale skin
fluttering breaths
then a long, drawn-out sound
the screech of a forgotten voice, painfully familiar
it is time to wake up.
—Brutus swears and stamps out the fire.