promise me?
Tonight sits like a maimed carcass on wet, bloody haunches in the dark, in the still, in the counterfeit consciousness that passes over the dead air above our heads. And there isn't an echo of the bliss written about before, far far far away from here.
Only a million words hang in that empty air - some said, some left, some yet within reach. And each as hurtful as the last. You know that we could bleed out all the abadonment, the faithlessness, the pain that's smeared this little messy room with irrevocable darkness tonight. Could spill it in heavy stains over the pages, pouring like a river of black blood from our pens. Like crimson ink from our fingertips. Then, all the signs and smybols and metaphorical references would paint a picture here as hideous and ugly as death, when it steals through the veins - turns all the arms and legs and pieces of faces of little ones death-black. Rot that eats away the flesh in bright, gaping sores - oozing and spilling with all the frothy, corrupted sentences that are left to be unsaid.
Soon, someone would read them. He might even feel something for them. But he wouldn't break the placid reverie, wouldn't dare to break the serene silence long enough to say so.
Don't expect... she calls. Don't hope, don't dream, don't plead.
Once before, we called her the voice of doubt, the hum of hate, the sigh of pain. But what does it matter now? Here in the quiet, where it's all been left, she's holding us now. Here, in the stillness that last vibrations of some unfamiliar voice left, she's caressing our hand and our heart and our mind. For now, she owns us. Because she loves us.
Because she wants us. Because she makes us believe she needs us.
To everyone else, she declares, we're refuse. We're useless, disgusting waste. We're superflous matter that's only good at spilling emotional tableaus on bathroom stall doors. Just one of a million tragic tales that don't end up making the audience cry. Just one of a million failed attempts to be beautiful. To be faithful.
She may be lying. This may be death. But, for now, she's the only one who's still with us. Still near us. Still holding us. After the shadow of the storm has fallen. After the words have finished their echoing for five complete years. After the terrors confirmed and the curtains drawn, and the deadpan expression of fate and the growling laughter of the rest of humanity is all laid in its place. She's here - whispering her deceit, spinning her poisonous silk into fresh veins that'll hear her words.
She's here, teaching you to danse. She's here, teaching me to twirl and laugh and forget about the past. She's here, heeding all the warning signs - and telling us that tomorrow'll be alright. Telling me that I'll awake, telling you that you'll feel better.
Telling us that our promises mean shit to everyone - but her.
-RK
Only a million words hang in that empty air - some said, some left, some yet within reach. And each as hurtful as the last. You know that we could bleed out all the abadonment, the faithlessness, the pain that's smeared this little messy room with irrevocable darkness tonight. Could spill it in heavy stains over the pages, pouring like a river of black blood from our pens. Like crimson ink from our fingertips. Then, all the signs and smybols and metaphorical references would paint a picture here as hideous and ugly as death, when it steals through the veins - turns all the arms and legs and pieces of faces of little ones death-black. Rot that eats away the flesh in bright, gaping sores - oozing and spilling with all the frothy, corrupted sentences that are left to be unsaid.
Soon, someone would read them. He might even feel something for them. But he wouldn't break the placid reverie, wouldn't dare to break the serene silence long enough to say so.
Don't expect... she calls. Don't hope, don't dream, don't plead.
Once before, we called her the voice of doubt, the hum of hate, the sigh of pain. But what does it matter now? Here in the quiet, where it's all been left, she's holding us now. Here, in the stillness that last vibrations of some unfamiliar voice left, she's caressing our hand and our heart and our mind. For now, she owns us. Because she loves us.
Because she wants us. Because she makes us believe she needs us.
To everyone else, she declares, we're refuse. We're useless, disgusting waste. We're superflous matter that's only good at spilling emotional tableaus on bathroom stall doors. Just one of a million tragic tales that don't end up making the audience cry. Just one of a million failed attempts to be beautiful. To be faithful.
She may be lying. This may be death. But, for now, she's the only one who's still with us. Still near us. Still holding us. After the shadow of the storm has fallen. After the words have finished their echoing for five complete years. After the terrors confirmed and the curtains drawn, and the deadpan expression of fate and the growling laughter of the rest of humanity is all laid in its place. She's here - whispering her deceit, spinning her poisonous silk into fresh veins that'll hear her words.
She's here, teaching you to danse. She's here, teaching me to twirl and laugh and forget about the past. She's here, heeding all the warning signs - and telling us that tomorrow'll be alright. Telling me that I'll awake, telling you that you'll feel better.
Telling us that our promises mean shit to everyone - but her.
-RK
3 Thought(s):
Your 'about me' would have made Shakespie so proud... if not then, you know, jealous.
Death whispers into your ear a sweet melody, caressing your cheek with his breath, and you turn and embrace him.
Clutching desperately to him, make sad, sorrowful love to him. Confess my soul, my passions to him. And when the morning comes, it is I - not he - who will no longer breathe the stagnant air betwixt us.
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