For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
No more – no more – no more –
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances
And where thy footstep gleams –
In what ethereal dances
By what eternal streams.

- Edgar Allen Poe

August 12, 4084

My Journal - I Am Free At Last

Edea Kramer.

I had a dream last night--I had a dream like flying. I dreamt I was awash in light, and that the light was crying. I had the thought that I might be someplace wherein she could see--I thought that I might (maybe) run, but all the roads were lit (again) by her unflinching, angry sun.

I thought that I could hear her say that she would have another day, that all the light and love I knew would be hers when she was through.

But then she cried.

As if the moon had risen upon the angry ocean, the shore lapped in upon us and left her body broken. And might that I had looked away, I then would not have heard her say--

Moonlight is silence, shining at last from the present to the future and the present from the past, and in the moonlight you see us dance: like a marionette, the strings are tied, the bars are set, the doll is blind, it dances in the way it should--the lifeless dancer made in wood. Cool eyes see the dancer break, and then the flames the dancer take.

And there she lay, in flesh and blood amidst the dirt rain turns to mud. And there she stared with amber eyes that (like a human's) still could cry--tears ran until the tears ran dry.

And might that I had looked away, I then would not have heard her say--

Inside me runs a red river, red river: it flows in lungs, in heart and liver, it moves along with drummer beats and as I burn the river heats. Inside me also runs a black path, the road down which I danced at last, and though my war lies in the past a war will leave scars of the lash. Those scars can move from back to back, into hearts which dark paths lack, and in that move is what you see: the permanence of memory. You'll walk the path; remember me, and be dry-eyed; no tears for me.

And then in dreams I bent my knees and knelt upon the clover leaves-- and placed a hand upon her side-- beheld the spot where she had died.

And then, while raging, like a flood a ghastly blackened river rose and tumbled at me where I stood and rocked me back from head to toes--

And then, like sleeping in the sea I was transfixed with memory.

I had a dream last night--I had a dream like dying. I dreamt that I awoke at last--and that I awoke crying.