There is a dying village inside of me. I know all of their fading war songs. Carry its winding paths on the plain of my palms. Have folded their ruined churches into the dirt of my dreams and whispered, Sleep.
There is too much magic inside of me, and then again, not enough. I have held their weeping children in my lungs; felt that weight; wanted to drown. I have known that shell, that hulking husk that still limps on. Its people promising new day on grey smeared tongues.
I have wanted this. To be ancient. To keep graveyards in the hollows of my collarbones. To remember the dead. To have history. I have held all of this inside of me. Have watched out my window feeling my ribcage burn down.
What do you do when your body turns to dust? When the forest empties out and the birds have been choked silent? How do you fall asleep with rain in your veins and not kiss every cross you come across?
This dying village needs some luck. A new language. A carpenter with hands that know enough to build and brave a barren land where every mist is missing ghosts and missing most that new day promised.