THIS IS NOT FOR YOU
(Unless it is)
Author's Note: Until snow falls on desert skies...
At-top metal corpses, intermingled flesh, and all the other once-pumping vessels of a "so-called" civil society - a young girl weeps. Not only did her creators abandon her, but her name has as-well. That name has been swallowed, dreams devoured, and efforts all for naught. Even her tears, ever so sweet, fall onto deaf, uncaring, tainted soil. If she is crying alone, does she make a sound? She will insist that she is. Even going so far to scream out to the tainted sky as if it could scream back.
"Why!" Thrashing about she screams, desperatly clinging to the sludge that was once her dear friends. Only fragments of hair, bits of bone, and strips and bits of cloth remaining of them. Like her, their names, dreams, efforts all swallowed. Latent descriptors are the only things that describe these little reminders of a time much better. Such as the little crimson strand of red hair aptly named "red" or a fragment of horn haphazardly named "demon." The girl of swallowed moniker collects such things as she spends her dayless days weeping.
Was her crying a pointless trifle? A futile fight? No, far from it. That continued pain is a rebellion against something lurking deep inside her fragile heart. To feel comfortable, to feel complacent, to only numbly move onto into that swallowing void and become one with the blue-black sludge around her is a coward's fate. So, did this in-fact mean her swallowed friends succumbed to such a fate? The fragments, if she gazed into them long enough, would tell her the answer.
And she did, and she gazed, for a year's time. Tearful, vigilant, remorseful, memory filled eyes.
Then, with full realization, she did realize cruel truth. She had no part of this, yet was all the more aligned with twisted ambition. A prisoner...
Something greater than herself - a fiction.
Looping, trying, and pleading for a conclusion that will never come. He is with her and she is with him.
And he is writing - as your eyes follow these words left to right.
Three times before he began and three times after he swallowed those dreams. Something that bugs him, a perpetual sickness, to feel warm and now cold. He swallowed that heat. Treading too close to that poison we all know.
And did he ever learn his lesson? Well, did you?
Did you?
Nothing ever meant anything to you.
I may swallow my dreams.
But at-least they are mine.
I have her.
You have nothing...
You like the taste of ink, don't you?
(Unless it is)
Author's Note: Until snow falls on desert skies...
At-top metal corpses, intermingled flesh, and all the other once-pumping vessels of a "so-called" civil society - a young girl weeps. Not only did her creators abandon her, but her name has as-well. That name has been swallowed, dreams devoured, and efforts all for naught. Even her tears, ever so sweet, fall onto deaf, uncaring, tainted soil. If she is crying alone, does she make a sound? She will insist that she is. Even going so far to scream out to the tainted sky as if it could scream back.
"Why!" Thrashing about she screams, desperatly clinging to the sludge that was once her dear friends. Only fragments of hair, bits of bone, and strips and bits of cloth remaining of them. Like her, their names, dreams, efforts all swallowed. Latent descriptors are the only things that describe these little reminders of a time much better. Such as the little crimson strand of red hair aptly named "red" or a fragment of horn haphazardly named "demon." The girl of swallowed moniker collects such things as she spends her dayless days weeping.
Was her crying a pointless trifle? A futile fight? No, far from it. That continued pain is a rebellion against something lurking deep inside her fragile heart. To feel comfortable, to feel complacent, to only numbly move onto into that swallowing void and become one with the blue-black sludge around her is a coward's fate. So, did this in-fact mean her swallowed friends succumbed to such a fate? The fragments, if she gazed into them long enough, would tell her the answer.
And she did, and she gazed, for a year's time. Tearful, vigilant, remorseful, memory filled eyes.
Then, with full realization, she did realize cruel truth. She had no part of this, yet was all the more aligned with twisted ambition. A prisoner...
Something greater than herself - a fiction.
Looping, trying, and pleading for a conclusion that will never come. He is with her and she is with him.
And he is writing - as your eyes follow these words left to right.
Three times before he began and three times after he swallowed those dreams. Something that bugs him, a perpetual sickness, to feel warm and now cold. He swallowed that heat. Treading too close to that poison we all know.
And did he ever learn his lesson? Well, did you?
Did you?
Nothing ever meant anything to you.
I may swallow my dreams.
But at-least they are mine.
I have her.
You have nothing...
You like the taste of ink, don't you?