The Rime of the Ancient Millennial

[all because I confused elder millennial with ancient millennial]

There stands she, ancient millennial,
born betwixt waking seas.
Her hair has grayed like winter’s light,
her mouth knows prophecies.

In nineteen hundred eighty-three,
the world stood analog.
The rules were clear in black and white
before next century’s fog.

The days were long, the nights were kind,
before the world grew teeth.
The dark was not yet known to her,
nor secrets it could keep.

In years before the tide had turned,
she wandered wild and free.
The salt marsh wind still followed close
and pulled her toward the sea.

She heard the call to venture out,
on paths that led ahead.
The future hummed like something kind
and slept beside her bed.

Not born of spite, nor schooled in dread,
the clocks still kept their vows.
Her guests were met, the feast was set,
she let them in her house.

She did the things they asked of her.
She stayed. She tried. She wept.
As passing time slipped through her hands,
She clung to what was left.

The walls grew close. The doors sealed shut.
The windows learned her face.
She practiced careful art of dreams

confined to proper space.

Like children, still, her thoughts would stray
while life held her in place.
Through years of measured breath and want,
her heart forgot its grace.

Then from afar it called to her

a voice both soft and strong.

Its gentle song of feathers frail

convinced her home was wrong.

 She headed out while streetlights dim
stopped beckoning her home,
for home was not where it once was,
its shape no longer known.

 She set to sea, into the dark
and followed the bird’s song.

It promised things that she had lost

and begged for things it longed.

 A lesser sin, no blade, no blood,
was done with steady hand.
She followed blind the albatross
toward its promised land.

 She fed it light from hollow hands,
and nursed it back to life.  
She traced the shape of what she’d lost
in name of pain and strife.

 The wind fell dead. The sea stood still.
The sun burned white and thin.
Stranded now they warmed themselves
with salt upon their skin.

 When there was nothing left to eat

it pecked her open skin.
She took its hunger for a sign
and called her hunger sin.

 The bird that sang of farther shores
would soon leave her for dead.  
It cast her out to breaking surf
and fled once it was fed.

 She raised her thin and shaking hand
for passing ships to see,
yet knew that none would take her in

for this was done by she.

 The quiet settled deep inside
like ash upon the night,
and just when she had given up
along came flickering light.

 The light was dim but called to her

from her old distant shore.

She swam and crawled her way back home  

and reached for him once more.

 Too much was lost, too much undone.

The damage marked her bones.

What once she sought to resurrect

was crumbled pile of stone.

 No prayer could grant absolving now.
No bargain could be made.
The bird had etched within her joints
the cost of what she chased.

 Though the sea had called to her

through false and promised cries,

she chooses now to bear the weight
of dying to survive.

Forgiveness is not what she seeks
from bird or man or beast.
She asks that those who hear her tale

consider they’re the feast.

-Courtney Zeni