no matter what they say, I am still the king
The world can be a lonely place -- if you let it.
Mother’s can be such empty carcasses, if that’s what you desire. Things are only necessary if you make them -- life is yours for the taking. (And take, you shall.)
Your voice is a sing-song on the breeze, carried hot with the summer sun, a rivulet of noise flowing across the baking plains of the river. It is a cooling welcome, a soft lullaby to caress away the heat of the afternoon. You are not a fool, you are not a fool, you are not a fool. (Isn’t it that we repeat things to ourselves to ensure that they are not true?) Is your song a gift from your mother? Did you create it yourself, planted into your head to ensure you are strong, you are true, you are whole? Or was it a gift from your mother; a whispered thing before her life was yours?
You look innocent enough to Him, a small and gentle thing washing the red from her face (a mistake lost and gone forever). Your mind, however, is an open casket, a corpse to pick through, as if He were a vulture. The murder of mother, the hum of your song, your life so new and bright. You are ripe for the picking (although, no doubt, you will attempt to put up a fight). You are not a fool, (no, you do not have to be), but only time would tell. Would you be just like your mother? Your mother, your mother, your mother - her face washes across His mind like the waves rocking onto the shore. Shiya; how was she still here? She was from so long ago, eons ago, ages ago. And she is gone forever now. At the death toll of your crimson lips.
He approaches, the river licking at his legs, the wake of his body rollingrolling the water into your bright red mouth. “Skaide.” Would you be startled at your name on His mouth? (He assumes not - but perhaps He is wrong). Would you have questions, like Mother? Or would you accept this to be your fate? Would you welcome Him as Death? Or would you writhe to escape a future so bright with him?
“If you are not a fool, you shall come with me.” He does not question; does not reach a rotting hand in invitation - he simply states. “Shiya - though her words, I assure, mean little to you - would assure you.”
(now, the storm is coming in)