He comes to me in the middle of the blackest of the night, between the beams of the moon. He whispers to me of rotting flesh and broken bones, blood gone black from decay. He whispers words of poetry, of the process itself, of the art of Death, of the action of decay. She is the movement of the shovel through the dirt, He is the scream of the vultures, the crack of the rope as we slip sideways.
He is the Dead God hanging on the Tree, already having leaked his offering of blood into the waiting Earth. He is the battlefield after the last cry of metal upon metal. He is the process, always the process.
This is the God who beckons to me, the balance against the pale white and silence of Her grave. This is the smell of rotten fruit and the buzz of flies, He who moves into the Silence like a fat toad in the mud, waiting for its prey. I don’t know His name yet, or even if He has a name. He is unlike any other deity I have ever come across, foundational but kept separate. It is He who takes the offerings of the Sacrificial Kings, who choose to die in order to live. It is He who consumes life, cell by cell.
He asks me to hold the space, keep the tension, allow the process of decay and breaking down to occur in the world and the lives around me. He asks me to see the entirety, to see beyond this tiny grain of here and now. He asks me to sit in the rotten wounds, keep company with the maggots, allow the scent of the carcasses to perfume my outlook. He asks me not to be scared but to embrace the necessity of His work. He pushes me and pushes me and pushes me, until I am coming apart at my seams.
And I am coming apart at my seams.