The whiplashes as they skip the stars
chasing ghosts
and demons of the deep
denizens of dark dungeons,
and cold fingered Others,
the heroes of the void fuel their days
with the passion of the hunt.
Traversing the millions of miles,
far from the warmth of the family hearth
far from the sandy shores, and azure gemstone skies
the turquoise of day,
and the green of summer,
burning with glowing eyes
they scream in the stillness of the universe
chasing phantoms
with silver hammers, shining daggers, lonely-unsheathed spears
saving the day from the horrors of their minds.
They feed on stories of glory,
pouring out epic tales spun and unspun with fading memory,
foaming at the mouth with unaffirmed emotion
the metal steeds and their battle scars keep stable company,
and their stories are written in ink dyed to look like blood.
And pages slip out of the windows, to scatter across the void
little yellowing sheets of paper glinting in an ever-expanding universe
tiny unrealized stars, little mirrors of what might have been,
beacons with whispers calling out to whoever, whenever,
and these tales burn up in alien skies,
orbit heathen planets,
lap up on unknown shores,
and are ignored as oddities.
The romance of ignorance.
