The speed of sound serves as the reluctant vassal of communication,
Lagging behind the message, Pushing and heaving all that God allots:
Never quite enough.
We drafted our Bragi in the first round,
Overlooking Saga and Freya,
For their domain presiding just North or South of the present.
Our voices were the logical choice, according to the flawed logic of proud men,
To carry out our rule of the present:
The age of (wo)Men,
Where the Universe nor Deity could interfere;
The tense of free-agency.
We were wrong.
It wasn’t until what the fathers-of-our-fathers’ whispers finally caught up,
An echo from the misty and grey past from where all sounds are born,
That we felt the horror of a true mis-take.
Through aid of nightmares,
Our champion fell from our shoulders,
Fallen and abandoned,
With no immediacy to carry out his objections.
Our proper harbinger then,
Who can bear the burden?
To whom does the burden fall,
To brave that dangerous balance,
Between was and will-be,
All while delivering the mail to its’ proper recipients,
With no delay?
The search is futile yet,
Only succeeding in patching the damages,
With the temporary enlistment of deceit,
To trick ourselves instantly,
That we constantly recreate tentative bridges of communication,
That latch on to other lost souls,
Lost in the In-Between.