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Chapter three in this slow life-analysis. Story form again, of course. It's always easier that way. I havn't really thought too thoroughly over what i'm going to put into this one, or why. But, that's kind of the point. This is th wrath, representing my current state of mind.
The general point of this - Artemyss' break-down.
Thin, sweet, burning slits criss crossed over heartlessly crafted skin. Crimson drops pulled free and screaming from their hollow grave by the silver strands which guided their bitter life, only to let them rest into a purposless, dreamless sleep. This was the result of his Artemyss' rebellion. Tangled threads of dull silver whirlwinding about his hollow limbs in an eruption, a crying dance. No phantom hands guided his shattered song, no reason, no logic.
A bitter-sweet ecstasy burned and writhed within his cold and tender form, splaying and contrasing him in a lying freedom. Screaming, crying, he sang for her. Thrashing, clawing, he danced for her.
His smooth, porcelin hands pressed firm against sharded, bias glass. Flaming core shivering under his frozen shell. His shattered mirror held no reflection, only a void of comforting, twisting black returned to him. The tangled, silver wings continuing his dance as he held himself, waiting for her to come as she'd silently promised. Each gentle tip expanding, kissing their positions in corners just escaping reach in the protecting, jail of a box one by one. Pulling, dragging, welcoming him back into their secure finality.
Flesh deviding, silver lengths pulling, a deep swelling crack began to part in his devinely crafted frame. The flames which fule his thrash for the life which he so resented flicked against him, burning pittilessly over thin, sweet slits. Weak with his new, cold power, he would begin to fade back from his precious, broken mirror. Hands still beating, breath still gliding over the sharded glass. Nails and wavered voice screamed softly against the black abyss... Would she hear him? Did she feel him? Could she know his damning, desperately necessary dance for her?
As he fell back into his motionless, statuesque rest, only one thought was granted to comfort his dieing fire. If in fact she did recognize his hidious world, as such with the rest of the hollow faces awaiting to greet him in his choreographed dance of each empty day, it would not sway her cruel, softly smiling look upon him. In the slightest.
edaaz · Tue Apr 04, 2006 @ 10:13am · 0 Comments |
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