We are already of the barrow.
A turn of the chamber followed the roar of the gun is all that divides. Or the obsidian’s edge, if you prefer, for that line is silent and cuts the threads fine. Or that final chest rattle in the nadir of night, while kin look on.
Gasping revenants clutching at vapors threading their path through the mists and ways, our hands wither to dust. And for what? The illusion of the infinite when we are but dirt and dust.
We color ourselves with the shadow of our own ash gathered from down there, in the pit. Try to give ourselves light from the shadow, by way of contrast. But few seem to see.
We are already of the barrow.
4 responses to “Barrow”
I live by a river named the Barrow. And to me, this is a haunting and powerful reminder of how close we always are to the earth that will one day claim us. 🧡
Thank you Mae. 💙
This works well, Michael; a poignant piece exposing the fine line between being and not being (if it exists) and how we act blind to it.
Thanks Chris. There is always the veil. 😉