It was silent around everywhere. Everywhere, everywhere, and eerie and Yellow. A storm was brewing, the birds were restless. A beautiful day for a walk.
And it was indeed, perfection, that a man so small in frame and dark of skin and hair and optic should wander out on this day where it was yellow and ominous. Such a beautiful day for a walk.
Past gates tall and towers taller, past lonely sentinels that were trees, canopies and blankets and mothers and statues. And mothers and statues.
Out, past the trees, far past the lonely sentinels that were mothers and statues.
Onto the plain. Some grass was green, some was brown. Less and less was green, more and more was brown.
Far onto the horizon, the man whose nose was scarred and lovely skin was darkened with brown did see the storm a brewing and the black flock faltering and fumbling and flattering about with quiet screams to one another.
Quiet lightning was, and was not, just like that, like a tragedy. And thunder played remorse. Roll and roll. Play my remorse. Remorse for what?
And another of skin such palor that was not, but bronzed and beautiful and far from protected. And hair unlike the clouds that now brewed, but like those of yesterday and like those of tomorrow against the blue sky. And eyes that matched the plumed fingers of the lonely sentinels.
Such a figure did approach, with raindrop tears, foreshadowing the gentle whispers of wind the storm a-brewing did make, and moving at a limp.
And this did fall into another's arms, so small a connection but so close. And the dark clouds and the dark cloud of birds drew nigh.
The one with moolight hair fell, and the one dark of hair and skin and optic gazed on. The birds alighted in melancholy, screaming to eachother silently. And the one dark of hair adn skin and optic gazed on.
And then the birds were gone.
What did remain but a lonely figure. No longer of the living, but never having lived, not of the dead. A scarecrow blinded with black tears, mouth stitched, lips sealed. Lips that had never beened opened.
Where was the light?? Thunder lamented.
The rain began to pour.
And it was indeed, perfection, that a man so small in frame and dark of skin and hair and optic should wander out on this day where it was yellow and ominous. Such a beautiful day for a walk.
Past gates tall and towers taller, past lonely sentinels that were trees, canopies and blankets and mothers and statues. And mothers and statues.
Out, past the trees, far past the lonely sentinels that were mothers and statues.
Onto the plain. Some grass was green, some was brown. Less and less was green, more and more was brown.
Far onto the horizon, the man whose nose was scarred and lovely skin was darkened with brown did see the storm a brewing and the black flock faltering and fumbling and flattering about with quiet screams to one another.
Quiet lightning was, and was not, just like that, like a tragedy. And thunder played remorse. Roll and roll. Play my remorse. Remorse for what?
And another of skin such palor that was not, but bronzed and beautiful and far from protected. And hair unlike the clouds that now brewed, but like those of yesterday and like those of tomorrow against the blue sky. And eyes that matched the plumed fingers of the lonely sentinels.
Such a figure did approach, with raindrop tears, foreshadowing the gentle whispers of wind the storm a-brewing did make, and moving at a limp.
And this did fall into another's arms, so small a connection but so close. And the dark clouds and the dark cloud of birds drew nigh.
The one with moolight hair fell, and the one dark of hair and skin and optic gazed on. The birds alighted in melancholy, screaming to eachother silently. And the one dark of hair adn skin and optic gazed on.
And then the birds were gone.
What did remain but a lonely figure. No longer of the living, but never having lived, not of the dead. A scarecrow blinded with black tears, mouth stitched, lips sealed. Lips that had never beened opened.
Where was the light?? Thunder lamented.
The rain began to pour.
