The Shoreline of a Dream
Two moondogs sink low tonight and howl upon the twilight plains of these memories. Can you hear them in this dream? Can you see them setting into the sapphire horizon? Their moaning seeps low into the ground, tracing past the mother's foundations and into the ancient river, lined with wailing chasms. Its vaulted ceilings spired with what once was. The primeval skiff, adrift, its ebony bow carved with bats' tattered wings. Waveless dark waters caress the wakeless vessel as the howling drips onto her low planks. The only sounds are the deep plunge of Charon's oar as it sweeps across the formless mercury and the soft plinks of our moondogs’ fresh tears as they trickle down shadowy stalactites. The travelers with him are still as the Styx swirls beneath them. Cerberus sleeps upon his ivory bedding—the bones of men and monsters. The great cavities rise, then fall without a sound.
