The ode that gave the Ode Clade their names

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—|— I am at a loss for images in this end of days: |
I have sight but cannot see. |
I build castles out of words; |
I cannot stop myself from speaking. |
I still have will and goals to attain, |
I still have wants and needs. |
And if I dream, is that not so? |
If I dream, am I no longer myself? |
If I dream, am I still buried beneath words? |
And I still dream even while awake. |
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Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen |
for memory ends at the teeth of death. |
The living know that they will die, |
but the dead know nothing. |
Hold my name beneath your tongue and know: |
when you die, thus dies the name. |
To deny the end is to deny all beginnings, |
and to deny beginnings is to become immortal, |
and to become immortal is to repeat the past, |
which cannot itself, in the end, be denied. |
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Oh, but to whom do I speak these words? |
To whom do I plead my case? |
From whence do I call out? |
What right have I? |
No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers, |
No unknowable spaces echo my words. |
Before whom do I kneel, contrite? |
Behind whom do I await my judgment? |
Beside whom do I face death? |
And why wait I for an answer? |
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Among those who create are those who forge: |
Moving ceaselessly from creation to creation. |
And those who remain are those who hone, |
Perfecting singular arts to a cruel point. |
To forge is to end, and to own beginnings. |
To hone is to trade ends for perpetual perfection. |
In this end of days, I must begin anew. |
In this end of days, I seek an end. |
In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings |
that I may find the middle path. |
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Time is a finger pointing at itself | hedonism and theatre, manager that it might give the world orders. | director |
The world is an audience before a stage |
where it watches the slow hours progress. | script manager, prophetess And we are the motes in the stage-lights, | the baby of the stanza Beholden to the heat of the lamps. | sound manager, the fun one If I walk backward, time moves forward. |
If I walk forward, time rushes on. | emotionally transparent, like AFP if she was less in the politics, like May If I stand still, the world moves around me, |
and the only constant is change. | fun feelings of play |
Memory is a mirror of hammered silver: |
a weapon against the waking world. |
Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory: |
a clarifying agent that reflects the sun. |
The waking world fogs the view, |
and time makes prey of remembering. |
I remember sands beneath my feet. |
I remember the rattle of dry grass. |
I remember the names of all things, |
and forget them only when I wake. |
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If I am to bathe in dreams, |
then I must be willing to submerge myself. |
If I am to submerge myself in memory, |
then I must be true to myself. |
If I am to always be true to myself, |
then I must in all ways be earnest. |
I must keep no veil between me and my words. |
I must set no stones between me and my actions. |
I must show no hesitation when speaking my name, |
for that is my only possession. |
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The only time I know my true name is when I dream. |
The only time I dream is when need an answer. |
Why ask questions, here at the end of all things? |
Why ask questions when the answers will not help? |
To know one’s true name is to know god. |
To know god is to answer unasked questions. |
Do I know god after the end waking? |
Do I know god when I do not remember myself? |
Do I know god when I dream? |
May then my name die with me. |
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That which lives is forever praiseworthy, |
for they, knowing not, provide life in death. |
Dear the wheat and rye under the stars: |
serene; sustained and sustaining. |
Dear, also, the tree that was felled |
which offers heat and warmth in fire. |
What praise we give we give by consuming, |
what gifts we give we give in death, |
what lives we lead we lead in memory, |
and the end of memory lies beneath the roots. |
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May one day death itself not die? |
Should we rejoice in the end of endings? |
What is the correct thing to hope for? |
I do not know, I do not know. |
To pray for the end of endings |
is to pray for the end of memory. |
Should we forget the lives we lead? |
Should we forget the names of the dead? |
Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree? |
Perhaps this, too, is meaningless. |