forgotten

She sings a song that the no-ones hear, that the granted and ready ones hear and softly dance to. But her eyes are for the deaf and dire ones, the myths and the magazines. She waits for the story of her mind to match the story of her feet. And she waits for everyone to hear it told. Percussing with tears the graves.

But a myth bows and calls her. It beckons her to storybook tales and princes of charm. It weaves a tapestry of the grand quest. Her feet so near the song of her heart, she runs. And falls. Into the trap of old tales. Into the prison of poetry. She falls cut by the harp-strings of every melody she sang, a child. 

And the myths march on. Seeking new mulch for their fields. Leaving a little girl cold behind. Consumed by the wars of gods and the intrigue of devils she lies broken. And the little ones cry. The forgotten name is upheld by the nameless. 

The urchin remembers the quiet bird singing its song to the moon.

Mutterings on Suicide Squad #38

Written by John Ostrander and Robert Greenberger

Art by Luke McDonnell and Geof Isherwood