The Find

It called me from the stars
to search this eerie emptiness --
the haunting melody has followed me
since I first heard it in the ship:
A call from the cosmos,
music from unknown worlds.

Unseen hands on unfamiliar instruments,
a compelling voice of breathtaking clarity
echoing in perfect acoustical balance.
Alien words reveal the depth of soul
of the ones who walked this world.
It once echoed over crimson hills
beneath the twin moons.
In endless chains of melody
it filled the forest glades with gladness.
But that was another time.

Now, 'tis empty, haunted.

Today I discovered a crystal tower
in the mountains to the East.
As I gazed into its dizzying heights,
I knew the secret --
this is where the song was sung:
It filled the tower, which resonated
with life and joy, and love, and
radiated into the cosmos;
but now resides in dust and cobs, and
empty echoes of my footsteps.

What happened then, to waste such beauty?
What killed this planet dead?
I am driven mad by the haunting song,
in a frantic attempt to learn their fate, and
avoid it in ourselves.
I must find it ...
I must!

In the evening cool, I take a walk,
humming the unknown tune.
Lengthening lavender shadows
engulf the land around me,
tiny birds seem to carry the refrain
from blossom to blossom.

Something moves behind me,
I'm certain of a stirring --
yet I hear nothing.
Chills run up my spine, then dispel --
it's just my mad imaginings again, I'm sure.
Hurrying toward my dwelling, I feel it again --
turning to sweep the lavender
with frightened, desperate eyes,
I once again see nothing.

Whatever it is, it's stalking me.
I feel it!
Or ... is it an illusion?

Has this song driven me mad?

The light of my shelter
glows dimly in the distance,
a beacon, promising safety --
from what?
Myself?

It moves again -- I feel it.

Abandoning any pretext of calm,
I break into a headlong rush
toward shelter --

toward sanctuary.

The very atmosphere alive with movement,
a shriek of music shatters my inner ear,
my sanity in the same moment.
Sharp claws burst through my flesh
with the force of my seizure,
I am lifted like a broken toy
to gaze into the face of death.

In one final realization of the truth,
I face the music:
The tower was a temple,
the temple was a beacon.
Unwittingly, these ancient worshippers
had called death unto themselves:
a siren song of suicide.

Tonight, I join them.


Dallas D'Angelo-Gary 99