Death of a Nihilist [poetry]

12. sennachie

we follow the scents of our monolith ancestors' footsteps

up the valley, and down the mountainside,

where fish cannibalize their young, their old, alike,

and all we can do, on this cursed island,

is cry and die.

we follow the sour-bitterness of frostbite fingers and last goodbyes,

above pebble piles, and below dried hides,

where scorpios and clams burrow in holes underneath our soles,

like how our love cord tightly at the back

of our throats and noses.

we follow the shapes of our sent and unreceived letters

over the mires, and under ocean currents,

where flimsy banana leaf parchments disintegrate

at the same rate as crustaceans,

whales, micro-organisms of the deep dark.

we follow the echoes of murdered humans and animals' wailing

to heaven's frothing ream, and hell's seething slit

to where muddy shore meets sandy water

the colour of our gray ash and flesh scattering in the wind

for starving seagulls and ants to find.

we follow the handprints of lanky palm trees and low shrubs,

to where we gently, gently, lower ourselves

on top of corpses desecrated by birds of prey and insects of predator,

to where we wait for the rain,

the crabs, the monkeys, to peel away our remains.

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sennachie: a professional storyteller of family genealogy, history, and legend

prompt: something very gentle