The nine sisters won't play with me
so I'm counting on you, gray-eyed
and far-seeing, to remember me.
Where I left my heroine, she was
cooling her heels in the Land of the Dead.
She'll live (you knew that)
because Immortals do.
It's what they were fated to.
And as for me, I guess I'll live, too,
if I can figure out my way.
We are skipping from the Middle East to
the Mediterranean, (I've been--have you?
I've seen the rock and the hard place where my
epic crimson forbear found himself adrift.)
And here's where you find me.
Crafty one, send an owl. Whisper in my ear.
Get my stupid ass out of here.
Here I am: not in the dark of the Underworld,
but in the bright light of day,
chained to a mountain of bullshit,
vultures gnawing at my ever-renewing
last living fuck.
The mountain is my own bullshit,
the vultures exist in my mind,
and the chains are those I forged in life,
whatever the Dickens that means.
And I am not sure how to stop torturing me.
