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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3935 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Orion Arm dinnyc A trip to the morgue is many things; failure, of course, where failure will be stacked and slid upon other failures stiff and reproachful. A handing-over, a clay-journey, a temporary place for flesh yellow-white, torn and drained. I am the flesh-tender, the flesh-mover. I know nothing of resplendent souls. That night, the tent that served as makeshift morgue collapsed. The dead young man was quiet company beside the ruined canvas. Broad band of milklight filled our eyes; night ebbed like my own life. The only answer in the darkness the arrow of the starpath overhead. We know nothing... |
