Hunting Ancients

It happened on the approach, on my way to myself.

On my way up the grassy incline, endlessly curved, and carving a silhouette into the sky, it came to me—

Like a small, slithering wave huddled underneath a child's quilt, sneaking droplets silently toward its like, that’s puddled on the sunny side of the hill.

Like something to uncover, like something to find,

It came up, like a stag upon its prey,

Like Narcissus upon his thirst.

My scar.

I had years of planning, half a lifetime of daydreams and nightmares,

Vivid fantasies in favor of great struggle, greater sacrifice,

Tragedy and triumph, adventure and operatic magic,

In which she was my damsel.  I, her hero. 

In which her love was her damsel.   I, its savior, and then, hero.

In which her unknown want needed naming.  I, the secret space keeper, and she, her own hero.

I told them I had years of planning, half a lifetime of daydreams and nightmares.

It was all a waiting for my reward to materialize:  A pretty jewel called Love.

I told them all that I had another half a lifetime, an everlong well of time to wait, 

For my jewel to form.

And I knew it would form out of patience and chiseled practice,

Out of pressure and perseverance, out of tunnel vision and the waiting light of her eyes when she finally turned them on me.

My perfect jewel would grow, with my heroic help, until she was ready for us.

And together our fire would burn a halo across the world, and light up our one, true path.

I had half a lifetime, and on the way up my jewel left me.

Left me.

Half a lifetime of labor in the mines, of carving out the hills, always on the climb,

Half a lifetime in dedication, worship, and supplication,

Half a lifetime:  A huntress disguised in cool winks, hot tips, and false cessation.

And on my way up, sweaty and true, my guiding light flickered

And fled.

In a game of peak-a-boo.  Some rye-red bread-crumbs

She spread

For the fool like blood drops to the winds, and in her stead

A map she left, drawn of my sins, dressed up like dolls in royal purples, pinned

To my back like a 'Kick Me' sign.

On my way up, she drew the line.

This line.  Here.  Faint.  The color of skin, concave to a depth just visible at the angle of sunset. 

And just then you can see, like a superficial sketch, a thin lip, a smudge, and one circled, circle eye yet

Hunting.

Every evening, my scar confronts me, my half-life taunting, from underneath my baby's quilt I'm shunning

Yet the mirror on my back, the face resembling hers, my love and all our worlds, reminders of our kind, our way, our path, lineage and time.  

The course that's left leads only behind.  

And without babe or blood, bayonet or bind—to the Sister who stole my cupid's bow and alone shot our arrow to our star—an auld lang syne is sung with labored breath, approaching West, and this game smells like mine.