It was only a moment, three seconds, four seconds. Five fleeting seconds as I drove by the small gravesite. Five seconds that sparked more curiosity then the other six hours already lived that day. The old man standing at the tombstone in the back row of the old graveyard. Friday morning, single flower in hand, the only person I’ve seen in any of the countless Oklahoman community graveyards I’ve passed this year. His wife? His Child? His father? In those short five seconds of passing he looked up at me but only barely long enough to be noticed before leaving the flower and walking off towards the single car parked off the side of the gravel road. He was alone. Not by choice, or fate. Was he content with the loss? Was the flower for them? Or more so for himself? The Dead care not for material things. Maybe it was the thought behind the flower that they take with them past the gates, or maybe the blessing of the dead is no longer needing to worry about the living. Their burdens are left here, with us. We carry them because they no longer have too.

My body aches

My heart it breaks

and I can’t look ahead, for brighter days

Here and now

Our broken vow

Love long lost

My hearts the cost

Stomach churning

Fever burning

Was it all a lie?

Will I learn why?

or am I destined to lie here to aimlessly cry?

Oh how I would’ve been

How you and I should’ve been

The family that could’ve been

That I shouldn’t think of again.

Betrayed again?

Or is it in my mind?

I fear not

Your feelings were indeed a lie.

“What is that sound?”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, Never mind.”

“Right. Anyways Mr Eddington…”

Eddington glanced confusedly over either of his shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t hear that?“ He questioned before taking a deep breathe.

“Mister Eddington are you alright? Im afraid I don’t hear anything other then the storm.”

“Perhaps just my mind playing tricks on me, I apologize.”

“Well that’s quite alright, you’re certain your feeling agreeable?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Very well. As I was saying, Jenny and Mr Wilkerson have both agreed to-“

He paused as Eddington’s eyes moved along the walls and ceiling, then proceeded to the floor seemingly searching every plank up and down.

“James are you sure you’re alright?”

“How any times must I tell you I’m well, do you think I’m mad? The storm just has me on edge is all. And that sound! My Lord do you truly not hear that?”

“I never claimed you to be mad, I was merely suggesting you may feel ill, maybe you should rest.”

“Rest? Ha! I can’t hardly hear myself think, I’m certain I can’t sleep!” Eddington stood suddenly from his chair and began pacing the wall.

“What is it exactly you hear?”

“If I knew I would make it stop!” He shouted in response. “If I knew what it was, I would better understand from where it came, or inverse. I know neither, and so I no not how to stop it. Can’t you hear it?”

I step

soft and light

and walk on in the night.

The breeze

cool and soft

the moon casting little light.

The day

is late

and the world is dark

distant eyes

glow at me

from the other end of the park.

I see the silhouette of a man

outlined by moon and by stars

a low top hat on his head

in his mouth, a cigar.

But no smoke rises from the edge

and no glow announcing that it’s lit

and no color fill the man

And his stare does not quit

The breeze grows still

and my heart skips a beat

the world feels cold

and our eyes now meet.

I stare but don’t move

I don’t speak, I don’t breathe,

I do not run, I do not shout

my body numb I cannot leave.

Then with a blink the shadows gone

and a chill is all it leaves behind

so I turn, and walk on

pushing it’s gaze out of mind.

I am me,

or at least a shadow of who he was.

Now that who he was is gone,

so I am who he is because,

who he was, was kind.

and who he was loved all,

and who he was, was better,

and I came after he had his fall.

I strive to be him again,

but fall short as I am weaker.

I strive to be as great as he was,

but am left an empty seeker.

Who he is is me, who he was is dead.

He died under the stress of who he was,

crying in his bed.

The masks run deep

He wears many standing there

Everyone else around him wears one

They don’t pretend they're what they aren’t

Theyre heathens, they’re killers

they’re wicked, they’re evil.

They're murderers, no they’re animals

they're not even people.

Days of sacrifice that he’d spent

just to get to this altar

not once did he tremble

and never did he falter

Stuck in a den of monsters who chant

They sing “blood“ for their God

Soon his mask will come off

He watches the altar from beyond

He thought back on what he’d done

how the masks added up

was it worth it to save her

had he lost who he was?

The dagger is raised high

Our hero draws his gun

His heart pumping as he aims

“It would only take one”

He’d lied, and he’d stole.

Hurt and he’d sacrificed,

his missing finger a testament

carved in his shoulder, the mark of an acolyte.

His life for hers

A trade worthy in his eyes

he squeezes back the trigger

the man holding the dagger dies

Everyone watches him now,

into a corner he’s backed,

waving the gun as if he’s crazed

warning them not to attack

then whispers from the crowd

but there lips move not

and whispers in his head

whispers that come only from the dead

“shut up!“ he shouts

as his head starts to spin

he raises his gun

and fires again

“Agent Marcus Grant

FBI”

he makes his way to the altar

to the girl, and the man he made die.

Marcus took her hand in his left

and held the gun in his right

the crowd of masks watched them Back out of the church

and into the night

still whispers in his head

but one less mask on his face

to the girl a hero

to the others a disgrace

why did he hear them still now miles away

would the voices every leave

or in his head would they stay

perhaps he had gone to far

this time he wore too many masks

the carving in his shoulder to remind him of all his wicked tasks.

He did things he promised to never do

though innocent blood he himself never shed

he could still feel responsible for those The cult painted red.

I awaken in my bed

Alone as always

I go about my day

Traveling worlds, starting stories.

Deja vu washes over me

As I see her pretty face,

Her smile lights up my world

Even after I’ve lost everything.

Why does she look so familiar

I don’t care, it’s love at first sight

I wait for the elevator on the left

But she gets on the one to my right,

So I change my direction

And we descend down together

On the elevator she smiles at me again

And I almost start to remember.

Destiny. That’s her name she saids

How coincidental because she’s mine

And when we exit the elevator

It plays tricks on my mind.

We live a life in weeks,

Then to the old world we go

Where we could live in peace

Where we could live and grow old

But even the old nation has enemies it seems

They ambush the city

And tear apart my dreams

Deja vu again, had I been here before?

We try to fight, but the fang of death takes her

As it has, as it will, many times more

I remember it now

From dreams I’d had, many nights before.

He awakens in bed,

no recollection of this all

He awakens alone,

The fleeting dreams he can’t recall.

So the cycle continues, traveling new worlds, meeting new friends. Each time a little different, each time Destiny meets her end.