The Mastering: Sammath Naur

- jan-u-wine


Most of all,

most
of all,

I recall the stilling beat of my heart.

I suppose there is never more life to be felt
than in those last small moments

before you die.

Desire,
unlike the stumbling rhythm

falling
to silence,

does not fail me.

Oh, no,

I am caught at last on the death-sharp edge of it,
my very vision awash in gold,

ears deaf to all but the longed-for terror and beauty of Its voice,
sure-handed

and even surer-willed
in my need.

A sound intrudes upon Its golden singing,
a name I should know

echoing

with dimmed memory.

me.

Someone calls to me.

Someone says the word that used to be
my

name.

And something inside

laughs

and presses dark cold fingers to what is left

and I give over,
as I wish to,

as I must.

And I answer.

As I wish to.

As I must.

I am here, Sam.

I

am here.   

~ * ~ * ~ * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~ * ~* ~* ~*~*~

No.

No, my master.

Here
you

are not.