we called him deadwing
but could not recall
the reasons why.
such is the way
of acquiring a name
different to one's own.
his eyes were different
colours, i remember that.

deadwing wasn't a person
but he was most definitely a he,
of that there can be no doubt.
just one of those things;
you could just tell.

deadwing gave us all life,
or at least the components
to build them ourselves.
he would watch over us
and give advice without
pushing and forcing.
he always got his way,
in the end, did deadwing.
he was like that.

he'd bring us others, occasionally,
all bloodied and horrified,
stammering fear
and muttering faith.
he was the creaking floorboards,
he'd tell us later,
the destroyer of the last
bastion of sanity.
he was the phantom smell of smoke,
the shadowimage
in the corner of your vision
in a dark room,
he was the being-watched feeling
the unlucky ones get,
the ones he's evaluating,
scoring, marking.

deadwing likes driving people away,
but we stuck by him.
we could see his workings,
his cognitions and resonances.
we saw the master plan
and the reason for the fear.
he was steeling us for death,
or at least the thought of it.
we could now face it
and ponder rather than just hide.
deadwing likes us
because we forgave him.

deadwing lets us watch people
from time to time.
he evaluates them
but it's an honour just being there,
watching him and them
in a parallel danse macabre,
a myriad thoughts condensing
on the walls and windows.

i could never be deadwing,
i don't have the patience.
to sit in the dark for years,
watching the same inane skin
sleep and scratch and shit.
i'm content with making
the odd floorboard creak,
the subconscious' bait.
they call me nearly-deadwing,
but it isn't very catchy.

someone is reading
a paragraph about deadwing
and he's behind them,
urging them to turn around.
i hope he does,
i really do.