Deceit has ways of sticking around
This is what we call a tragedy. The man standing before your eyes, the man you've loved to hate, hated to love. The man who is the most revered man on the face of the earth, with the golden hair, the slender build, and the perfectly manicured nails. The man with the smile the rips through your soul like a fish hook attached. The man with the moods that can unite continents, that can stretch feelings to the very bottom of the human abyss and leave them there in that cold, dark uncertainty.
He has the power above all of you. He kneels upon the floor in this room we all know how to get too. His empty hands flex as if they were holding some substance, as if he had some substance. He wished for the light, he wished for the darkness, he wished for something that would reassure him that he was still human. That he was not still human. That he was still who he was.
This devil, this angel, this demon cherub, looked around the room with eyes that were not seeing, yet they saw all. They saw what needed to be seen, for that was his gift. He looked brittle and frail, like a child. The sing song voice that seemed to fill the room would remind the people of playgrounds, of summers, of playing tag and climbing trees. He was the child, he was the adult. He was the disciplinarian.
This devil seraphim ignored the shattered glass he knelt on. The crimson spread out in spidery patterns across the white floor, matching the veins in his translucent arms. The look of peace on his face spoke nothing of this grim site, of the white of his linen clothes being contaminated with this filthy business of being human. He remained holy, unfettered by the ever presence being of that which could kill him and was his life force. This is what we call a tragedy. His highness, this devil, this angel, this demon cherub had a body count. He was a shattered man whose smile ripped through his soul only. His own soul, buried beneath this blood under his knees, shattered in pieces like so much broken glass. He wished for nothing. He wished for everything. He wished for the love that would refill his soul again. He wished for that point when life was whole and normal, when he was all who he said he was. He wished that these tears would not come, and that they did not sting so. He wished that salt and wounds hurt more, as a penance for his life. For his smile.
A/N: OH LORDY. I've been long absent from ffnet. No one here remembers ME I bet. But nonetheless, here's my most recent piece. I'm not sure how I feel about the ending, advice on whether or not I should elaborate is much appreciated. Also, WHEN (ahem) you review, I love to hear people's favorite lines. So yes, um, the title and the line "this is what we call a tragedy" are from the song Note to Self, by From First to Last. Just giving credit where credit is due. But yes, thank you for reading. Much love, and please review.
This is what we call a tragedy. The man standing before your eyes, the man you've loved to hate, hated to love. The man who is the most revered man on the face of the earth, with the golden hair, the slender build, and the perfectly manicured nails. The man with the smile the rips through your soul like a fish hook attached. The man with the moods that can unite continents, that can stretch feelings to the very bottom of the human abyss and leave them there in that cold, dark uncertainty.
He has the power above all of you. He kneels upon the floor in this room we all know how to get too. His empty hands flex as if they were holding some substance, as if he had some substance. He wished for the light, he wished for the darkness, he wished for something that would reassure him that he was still human. That he was not still human. That he was still who he was.
This devil, this angel, this demon cherub, looked around the room with eyes that were not seeing, yet they saw all. They saw what needed to be seen, for that was his gift. He looked brittle and frail, like a child. The sing song voice that seemed to fill the room would remind the people of playgrounds, of summers, of playing tag and climbing trees. He was the child, he was the adult. He was the disciplinarian.
This devil seraphim ignored the shattered glass he knelt on. The crimson spread out in spidery patterns across the white floor, matching the veins in his translucent arms. The look of peace on his face spoke nothing of this grim site, of the white of his linen clothes being contaminated with this filthy business of being human. He remained holy, unfettered by the ever presence being of that which could kill him and was his life force. This is what we call a tragedy. His highness, this devil, this angel, this demon cherub had a body count. He was a shattered man whose smile ripped through his soul only. His own soul, buried beneath this blood under his knees, shattered in pieces like so much broken glass. He wished for nothing. He wished for everything. He wished for the love that would refill his soul again. He wished for that point when life was whole and normal, when he was all who he said he was. He wished that these tears would not come, and that they did not sting so. He wished that salt and wounds hurt more, as a penance for his life. For his smile.
A/N: OH LORDY. I've been long absent from ffnet. No one here remembers ME I bet. But nonetheless, here's my most recent piece. I'm not sure how I feel about the ending, advice on whether or not I should elaborate is much appreciated. Also, WHEN (ahem) you review, I love to hear people's favorite lines. So yes, um, the title and the line "this is what we call a tragedy" are from the song Note to Self, by From First to Last. Just giving credit where credit is due. But yes, thank you for reading. Much love, and please review.