b l a c k e r than the s u n

[Nykeln]

nykeln

there's no hope for us, we speak in tongues,

- x - Winter. Cold, dreary, empty, bleak. There was never enough to conceal you, never enough shadows to dance in, to stalk. The spindly boughs hung like naked limbs, decaying branches swaying in the cold winds snapped and fell, their rustic bark angled like gnarled hands chasing me as I picked my way through the underbrush. The snow was still falling and had been for quite some time, it just adds to the journey; thick piles of white like a downy carpet that made me sink down to my knees in places. Hard, harsh winters seem to his this place, this new world I have found myself in. It’s cold, but beneath my black pelt, i shiver with delight. There is something enticing about the wintry droplets of snow melting on tepid skin, sliding down my shoulders, my flanks as I worm my way through the spindly trees, jumping over a few cast logs and broken trunks. An obstacle course, these borders, as though the world is stopping those from coming in. No one can stop me. I escaped and with it I took the reins of my freedom, I took myself out of the problem and became the answer. Oh so philosophical, I sound. Mother dearest would be proud. Always the sponge, absorbing words, information. Always listening; those tufty ears of mine, feathery and downy black, they encircle my poll, picking up sounds in the distance, broken twigs snapping with a loud crack. I then realise it’s my own feet, my own feathery limbs that charge onward and break, crack, snap, every fallen bit of tree. There’s something delightful in destroying something weaker than you. A snort breaks my nostrils with a quaking flutter, my lips curl back and I inhale the damp, wintry smell of wet. Of darkness as the sunset takes hold of the horizon and bathes the outskirts in a purple grey light. I have come with purpose, with want. I have desires in my mind and words on my tongue. I have a wish of a dead mother to fulfil, to not become just some ornament, some beauty that sits and is admired and ridiculed all the same. You work for what you want, to work hard and you get somewhere, and of course, being beautiful just helped in some occasions. For a lady, I have been told I was too muscular; I worked hard, I trained myself to become strong in all aspects, mental, physical and spiritual it you care to tell. The earth beneath my feet has kept be grounded, the skies are the limit in which my earthen self can soar. I blow a few more snorts and take a sharp left turn, taking the last dying brush in my stride and leaping, landing in a good shoulder’s depth of snow, I plough myself through. Onward, onward. A steady push of my feathered limbs, my sturdy black body like a black ink blot on white paper as I work my way into the field, casting glances and inhaling scents. This world is new, full of faces, full of souls. I have so many questions in my mind, so many ideas floating, working like oiled cogs; faster, faster. Is Beqanna where I will find what I’m looking for? Or will it be another notch on my proverbial bedpost. I know one thing for sure, I refuse to be another ornament, like her. I refuse to stand pretty, preen and gossip like some dramatic actresses with goblets of wine. Of course, I’m all for a little wine, a little fun, but beyond that… I want more. I want to mean… something. - x -

blacker than the sun, no death can touch the crooked young the [lone] dark star of [nowhere]

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