The Craft

by SF

UNKNOWN SLEEPLESS NIGHTS preserving a life, attending every instant to this infernal power of uneventful order. I, as a weakling, find these efforts tiresome.

We hear a valuable whisper.

Usually I prefer lying down starring at the hidden secret we wear-out by living and how will we return with empty hands?

In your hands, we all respect water.

Often wondered, how many, really, are in the house, at times I would count their gloves to verify, but I knew there were the others, with pain on their naked fingers.

To forget you? I have forgotten.

In bygone days, strangers would walk in, never leaving. I did not see them, but saw their coachmen falling and dying out on the street, waiting.

An Aeolus bag of emptied Time.

At dinner, I would hear their racontes concealing with terror the Dark, the faraway Out. This touch I felt, since there was no-one ?Are you there??

Sophocles enters the scene.

Nightfall dressed by the melodies of the harp. It may not be a harp, but this immortal sorrow that comes with creative craft.Â