no matter what they say, I am still the king
Could you ever feel at home anywhere? That word is such a brazen thing: home. A permanent place, unchanging and solid. Home is a bleeding and broken place- a place meant to seep into your bones and wreak havoc on your soul. You seem to say that home is more the ocean; an endless monster with a wet tongue licking at your feet. Home is the sun, riding the curves of your back. Is that what settles you right into comfort? Do you not remember the nights of storms; the waves sucking you under, froth in your nostrils and filling your lungs? Do you not remember the sun stinging your skin, parching your tongue until it swells like as slug?
So you do. Remember, that is. You remember somewhere in that skull, the black soup of blood that was once the sea. You remember something about the end, about the beginning.
And here you are. Ready and waiting - not just for anything - but for him. Perhaps it’s an aching, a reckoning that you want to rewind again and again and again. That siphon of light from your life; a vacuum of death in that place you once revealed as home. How does it feel to be betrayed? It is a distasteful thing; a feeling you won’t soon forget - steeped with slicing hurt, roiling rage, the question of why. But oh is it thrilling. It is sinking into that murk of absinthe, that feeling that you are no longer in control, but it makes you feel so damn alive.
Is He the place you once called home? He is the wave that is gently sucking at your feet, dribbling sand from underneath your hooves, grain by grain. He is the tide that shines gifts up onto your shore, presents from the moon to you, seaglass and shells and scuttling creatures. He is the sun that is gently tickling down your spine, sending a flood of luminescence throughout your bones. He is the wind that is plucking at your mane, bringing to you the salt sweet smell of the shore.
He is the wave that is throttling over your skull, something you cannot break through. He is the current that is pulling you down down down, away from your last breath and look of the land (which feels like a universe away). He is the sun that is slowly filtering into a pinhole, winking goodbye from above. He is the wind that rolls the waves over and over, sealing you in your tomb.
You could be a wolf - A lamb - A wolf in sheep's clothing. But you will never be alive like that again. You could be a delicate lamb, a dastardly wolf, a disguised wolf in sheep's clothing. But you will never quite be prepared for Him coming into your world. He; for whom the bell tolls.
“You were waiting somewhere else.”
He steps closer, His hooves should cause a crunch over the frost, but it is quiet, an envelope of silence, akin to holding your head deep under water.
His nose tips slightly upwards, nostrils flaring once as He inhales deeply. “Somewhere more brackish than here.” Closer, still. “And yet, here you are, ready and waiting for me.”
So you do. Remember, that is. You remember somewhere in that skull, the black soup of blood that was once the sea. You remember something about the end, about the beginning.
And here you are. Ready and waiting - not just for anything - but for him. Perhaps it’s an aching, a reckoning that you want to rewind again and again and again. That siphon of light from your life; a vacuum of death in that place you once revealed as home. How does it feel to be betrayed? It is a distasteful thing; a feeling you won’t soon forget - steeped with slicing hurt, roiling rage, the question of why. But oh is it thrilling. It is sinking into that murk of absinthe, that feeling that you are no longer in control, but it makes you feel so damn alive.
Is He the place you once called home? He is the wave that is gently sucking at your feet, dribbling sand from underneath your hooves, grain by grain. He is the tide that shines gifts up onto your shore, presents from the moon to you, seaglass and shells and scuttling creatures. He is the sun that is gently tickling down your spine, sending a flood of luminescence throughout your bones. He is the wind that is plucking at your mane, bringing to you the salt sweet smell of the shore.
He is the wave that is throttling over your skull, something you cannot break through. He is the current that is pulling you down down down, away from your last breath and look of the land (which feels like a universe away). He is the sun that is slowly filtering into a pinhole, winking goodbye from above. He is the wind that rolls the waves over and over, sealing you in your tomb.
You could be a wolf - A lamb - A wolf in sheep's clothing. But you will never be alive like that again. You could be a delicate lamb, a dastardly wolf, a disguised wolf in sheep's clothing. But you will never quite be prepared for Him coming into your world. He; for whom the bell tolls.
“You were waiting somewhere else.”
He steps closer, His hooves should cause a crunch over the frost, but it is quiet, an envelope of silence, akin to holding your head deep under water.
His nose tips slightly upwards, nostrils flaring once as He inhales deeply. “Somewhere more brackish than here.” Closer, still. “And yet, here you are, ready and waiting for me.”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in
@[North]