Ghosts down by the Volcano

I visit here often. It’s a barren flat land riddled with zig zagging cracks. The sky is dark, of course it is, because only in the dark do secret things congregate.

There is fire, lava and dark rock at the bottom of a pit. I sit by the edge and think about those who’s love I cannot shake. I sit there watching fire blaze up over the boiling lava, and I close my eyes to see it more clearly. Sight, as I have learned is only partial to being able to see. Sight, in honesty, works its magic from somewhere deeper within as well.

I’m not always alone here. I call them to me. Most of the time I remember how many there are. Let’s see, I will have to think a minute…Maybe there are 12 or 13 of them. I watch the ones that I can remember as they shuffle from behind a large outcrop of black rock. They are bewildered because they do not know how they got here or why. They cannot understand the possibility of this place. Then they see me. A wave of recognition makes them whisper questions one to another. I surmise they want to know why they are together and I am there waiting on the edge of the chasm. They are unsure, but they start to gather that they are all connected to me. Some of them know this immediately, while others are strangers which gather the information through exchanged glances.

 I beckon them to come sit with me. So we talk. It’s not laboured or uncomfortable at all. I want them to know that despite the world we live in, they have to fade. There are some that will not go, will not move into the darkness and away. When at last, I feel alone, all that were before me are gone away, I breathe in remorse and content. It is a strange potion.

The night is silent, save for a few crackling sounds from the churning heat below.

“You can come out now.”

I hear the flutter of wings from behind me. I reach back holding out my hand. Talons wrap around my finger and squeeze.

“Non dimenticherò mai l'uccello nero.”