A write of passage

Where did it go, I muse, and from whence did it come? Was it you or I that drove the whisper to the wall? Was I too harsh? Your presence here still portents much for your origin. I sleep in the confines of myself, and yet I stir not my companion. I rise in darkness and seek a window from which to watch the passage of the sound. The whisper is at the wall. Will it come down and dwell within my chamber?

A song went forth from an insect caught in honey. "It is time," the insect cries. "I am caught, where is the amber that might preserve my line? Where is the gold with which I might remember the past? I was once light, passing across worlds. Now I am here. I was once a wasp now I see myself, in truth a wisp. Even a predator would pull me from its meal."

What sector is this, that I might report to the command? A dead zone is dreaded by the living, but are we not ourselves dying? Or are we wool drying for the master? Why does the master dwell no longer in his abode; how many days have I been left on the washline? Which one is it: a line of beads drawn on men; a string of pearls, each one able to sting a careless seer; a dead eye reflecting faces contorted by the rage of being left behind; or a wall? The bricks must dream to leave. Am I dreaming of the day I was left to dry by the sun?

It is as if the last leaf of Fall, sighed at the tree, and the tree looked on and cried with sadness. Every year does not diminish the sorrow felt by the tree as the tree lets go. The tree wonders if it was only the wind sighing. I am getting older, thinks the tree everytime. Perhaps, though, that leaf was no ordinary leaf. Perhaps the master of the house left on that leaf for the fungal world.

I watch it fall, the last leaf. For whatever reason, the leaf fluttered on a windless day. I was careless, should have paid more attention, I could tell the leaf was trying to say something to me. It must have only been the wind, though, and I simply missed it, too busy straining to hear what was carried on it. I no longer hear the whisper; perhaps my muse will be no longer jealous. I am getting older. It was almost as if I felt for the leaf as it fell, a dangerous thought for one who dwells in gardens.