Part I: Cygnus: The Daughters of Swans- This is the first part of the first part of the first part.

Part I: Cygnus

The Daughters of Swans

[ I ]

It is a very powerful man who controls the seas; holding them to the abounding, taut waters of its self, and leaving with every respect toward it. O’ vessles set short upon the supple tassels of Lord and of the fishing river, you are here at last. To hold the reigns of the tides, one must know an inhumanity. To suffice the claim of perfection and to suffuse the empty wonder; it must be said that the highest excellence shall be no man; always second to himself. It is the closest power to our lords which shall commandeer the embodiment of its self; the construct of its extending volition. Its mind, an absolute reflection treading upon the trek of thousands and thousands, and a thousand more; steady forward, ever on, with now the mind at our back with its flourishing whip and will to tear us forward. It shall be against the storm and the peace, steady and indelible, which will lay the memory of summer and all of its sons upon the selfless water, and the inhuman man.

It was upon the coastline, set short that day, did a vessel make port, and it suffused upon its arrival the languid eyes which so envied their travels into riddle. The people about their windows and all upon the front of the sea looked with a mirthless distaste at the ship, and it was only when the sailors exited from the seemingly hollow ship did they relinquish what madness stirred to let loose a riot of affection. The ship had travelled hundreds of leagues, with conflicts replete within its men all torn like cracks in the wood and what peace lay in their demure eyes was of such memory; it may well have been a thousand leagues away and a thousand more. Steady was the ship that day, but by the will of the majesties they sought to it to float, and with the rigorous chains to hold down with the thoughts of home bringing them strength.

A man named Swanson exited alongside the others from the ship, young and torn, with no balancing joy in his eye, and so conflicted with the scarce affection of his reception; bleak and remote. He ventured out away from the crowds, and as the birds flew with a charm to their cawing, he too felt a slight bout of fortuity in his midst, his memory, and his prospects. His father was beside him, with his empty regards and his forced sympathy; the father was an impassioned writer and he bent down for no others except to save his own pride. Swanson knelt upon the land and he latched his boots up again, but his father did not wait, he continued, and they began to separate as he walked, and he spat at the ground and the dirt was moist. The sea behind him no longer swayed as it did when he arrived, and the emptiness which had so ensued receded into his unconscious as he stared at himself, inhaling the dark earth into his lungs. “We will discuss it in the later hours.” Spoke his father, smoking a cigar.

Swanson was home, in the city of all their faithless lords, and he felt strange. In the bizarre fashion he looked, he took glances of both pity and indignation. In the way he sought to his own thoughts he felt pity for himself, and when he arrived at his garret in a tiny, quaint, and ever disillusioning place he felt with the simple charm of the birds flying against the diminishing purple of the sky; the tangents of the crimsoned sun; and blackness of his hands that he was not in any place of home.

His captain had given him his penitence,” Weep for yourself, finally after weeping for all your friends and the leave. Weep because you deserve a little sadness on this numbing sea.”

He was very wise. But, Swanson could not easily tell you that the land was the place of senses. For the morose, disempowering green thick of the land saw to it his ambivalence be fronted with a disorientation so indicative of his hatred of land. He was in many moments, so changed he shifted his position to stare back at the sea, and he felt he had left the only place where horror may be awoken and his sensations continued. Where the supple tassels fall in the sea, they stay with their majesty on the land, and the majestic fronds of their golden tilling was sickening to a man who had simply loved something immaterial as to have it one with himself. He coughed with hatred, and people, people, stared at him with knowledge of him. So was the sea swayed to him, and he ran to it, with might to his sprint. The sea who held the rumors of all and not a single man.

The hill from his garret became aslant in its form. The houses lining it, tight and straight with high ceilings and even tighter rooms, fell like so. They were high and with white bricking and red shingles, with oblong windows and sills with reflecting ornaments. The sun was the eye of the scene, with its beady influence seeping into the grooves of the houses and the sea furthered the emanating precincts of the suns light. It was a romantic coast, with the dark sand setting in the red lungs; the red roofs with black tinctures; the aslant hills; the long withering garments of the lightened groves; the blackened lungs of the crimsoned homes and the inspired children with purple cheeks from the beginning cold.

His father’s face lacked any enthusiasm in life, and he was writing to Swanson his will. Swanson had seen him through one of the aslant homes in the same position as he had left him. The will had been torn and burned, borne know upon the shoulders of the earthen disclarity.

“Where is she?’ He said, so angrily,” I will not have you to disinherit her of her right.” Swanson gave no response, but he continued to run, far outside. He had joined the hegemony of God; the capacity of expansion; he had joined the authority adjacent to the respect of the olden man. He was what a man so young could not be, or at least by his puerile beliefs could not be maintained. Thus, the untenable reality set loose the scruples of indecision, and the putrid face of his father proclaimed with ire. Two fathers bound by the questioning.

Swanson continued, but ceased to run and buckled his boots, and his father who was wearing a charming suit began to cry after him. “Where do you go? Where you go she will not be far behind.” It was again, a romance entwined in the trees, and love for it was as scarce as the faith. And Love is irrespective to the suits of material, and the proverbial instruction of any verily statement as such will have man repeat it a thousand times. Swanson thought of it, Love, and the man beside him who conjured a kiss for his wife did, too; whether in equal measure, was not to be decided. The children had love too, for it was the sailors who came back from the intangible wars that gave matter to the rumors. It was the mothers and fathers who in the midst of their fleeting thinking procured a moment of self, and they inhaled the unscrupulous dirt to their throats with the poisonous fumes of the talk they did not know. The elders, too, who wore garments like the groves and held pictures of their dead lovers in their orange hands. They felt both the love and the spires of the sea of faith…though always in rumor.

Swanson loved the sea. The lord of the flowing rivers of gold with his invisible hand, Baldur, who also had a love within him did so strongly he could have fallen from the underscoring marks of whom he had bereaved to arrive upon his power. But, the short ripples of the water did not dawn with much revelation to concoct any brewing of love within others, even though Swanson knew he could not be the only one who loved the sea. His father had written about it, and before it was all well. Even the rumors of faithlessness did so rile upon the ego-laden priests of the parish to make wind up their instruments and take to the coastline, staring at the harrowing, filling darkness of rumor.

Swanson saw their tiredness from a league away in their eyes, and the sea did too. His father cursed at him. Of course, so did the summer, and rumor, and son, and Winter, and all those who have borne upon their shoulders the elegance of insanity. His father was insanity in those moments, and he cursed at him. So he ran to it, with might to his sprint, the sea in his mind. His father stayed his course, leaving his son to the ruin. The black dirt causing him to cough and to garble on his blackened spit, and he heaved a breath from his chest. “She is mine, too!” His eyes crept back into his skull with soreness from the sun, and the people turned away. The priests held their instruments to trumpet to the sea against the orange sun; the children with purple hands stared at him in wonder; the parents imbibed their thoughtlessness with the first true word in months to take away their children; the elders looked down in fear. Swanson knelt down in spirit to the rumor, to the Swan of himself, of his own love beyond the selfless sea, and he writhed with the agony of his blackness. I love that which I cannot know, how can you leave me to this wonder?”

Black were his hands that day; Steady was the ship; Purple were the hands of future; Orange were hands of the sun and the dried; thoughtless were the minds of the enslaved. Thoughtless was Swanson, and he was finally afraid on the soil.

When he tumbled across the stairs to a thoughtless wonder, with his wheezing breath he did not allow any shrills of pain to be allowed. And The Black crept as fast the people dispersed away from his bleeding, and he fell asleep to the renewing sentiments of possibility as he stared enveloped in his sleep and self; the sounds of lullabies from the windows of humanity, by the voices of their fathers who made love to their mothers and the sailors who cried in the night.

“I am your father, I am hers, and so are you, my boy, My Darling Swan. So young you are, as pale as my father, as thoughtful as my mother, and as hopeless as the daughters of swans. O’ Cygnus. The Child of God.”