My Son, Curious Eyes Gleaming


Partially reconstructed text of a poem that appeared to Christian monks who watched the unending rain above the ruins of a deluged metropolis, to which they had come to scavenge supplies. These words were all they found of value — Archivist Xn

My son, curious eyes gleaming: Thou see not an ending
Unending night and the ice cave: farewell to bones and thorns and scorn

My skin smooth and porous I made of petals from they that
Grow upon the long-dead.
I painted my eyes like hers with a wave from
The sea. My bones [unknown word]
I wind myself around in the manner of coral

None would blink their eyes when she stepped into a mirror, my vertical
Ocean or when I stepped out, eyes and ears shut tight

Leaned over your bed and told you silvered stories were they lies?
The animal mind floods with uncreated words: wet mortar. Magnetic bile.
Motion kissed by sight
Which knife severed thy umbilicus

A frozen lake of skin
An eye painted the color of the blood of thorns
I sound an ocean of void tied to a falling child
Lied-to portent

The mirror the iron hammer the blood the fall the

The text ends here. I am in the process of extracting more words from the boneless filter-feeders that now reside in the cracked shell of the monastery in which these words were originally transcribed

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