Born from shadow, the blackness of life's oddities, one is simply transgressed into life as a burden, as a strangeness. Eyes find you, always judging, fingers point and whispers twirl around the air like frostbitten kisses. They burn, the shards embed themselves deep into you, your marrow, your flesh. I have not known anything bar the cold glare, the whispers. Perhaps only from the trees, the leaves as they surround me with their new spring form. The boughs, naked from winter's harsh reign, they bend and they capture me, stopping me from entering the light.
Never enter the light, for it burns the sins, it enrages the quaint little blanket of shadow that you've always known. So, with those fair warnings from the well-whispered trees, and their wayward tendrils, I had stayed put. Finding a deep cushion of earth, the spindles of bark like a cage, keeping me in. My inky form a prisoner of the dark fortress. I pace, I pace wildly, my young pins churning the ground, my dainty hooves lost within the flurry of growing feathers. My mind is a foray of thoughts; they dance and they twirl like prima ballerinas. All quaint, all dainty.
These thoughts weigh heavier and heavier until I spot something, more to the point, someone. She enters the light, and my eyes narrow upon her, waiting for her to burst into flame, to melt into sordid ash at her feet. Was the tale all a ruse? Was it fiction? My head shakes, throwing the burdens from my shoulders, releasing the caged thoughts from my mind, and they soar, like free butterflies.
If she didn't melt, didn't turn into ash. Then I can join in the sunlit dance, could I not?
The thought tastes strange, even upon my lips as I roll it around, chewing thoughtfully at the idea. I wait again, watching as the silver mare dazzles and glows against the sun's tangerine rays. Yet, she fails to implodes, to melt into the earth's crust. I dare those tales, those whispered lies, I dare them with each impending step closer and closer to the lit world.
And then, my black frame emerges from the shadows, the prison of bark and trees, of shadow and dust. And I am there, as real as the grass beneath my feet, and as real as the silver mare who glimmers like none i've seen before (which isn't many, as I've not known much, bar my mothers, and my keepers, the trees, the darkness.) My tongue swells within my mouth, wanting to taste words, to feel them roll within my mouth, freed from my lips. But I fear the shadows looming over me, the trees whispering dark tales and sordid truths. So, I remain silent, and yet watchful, eyes following her journey across the sunlit land.
And watching, is all I can do, for I soon settle back towards the safety of the shadows. My daring adventure failing. The confines of the darkness blanket my inky form, and I feel content once more. Only watching the mare with a salacious eye and a desire in my heart, to do the same. Yet my prison of thrones, of winter boughs, they beckon me, stroke my black hide with the softest of touches. Claiming me as theirs.
Vaermina;
drinking by the mausoleum door,
they found you on the bathroom floor
chantale x nykeln |
