Quiet blind bliss,
We came here with weapons,
And this, is what we found.
Husbands and wife's kiss,
Over again, and bound;
With the world - a picture of sound.
Quiet blind bliss,
A simple wind blowing, the lemony green treetops,
Women sowing and tending their ripe crops;
A horizon of zip-lines, of near dry soft clothes,
A myriad of oranges, with patches of blue sown.
Oh how? Oh my? What a marvellous sight!
Oh how? That's just why, I could just cry:
A beautiful world lack sight.
With Gambling men and humorous kids,
They live together, without a thought of a threat.
Yet shadowed in wake, a darkness less fond.
A venomous thread.
It is us: a merry band,
yet we are pirates, thus:
We must do the unthinkable...
Kill these innocent people...
Betray that assumed trust...
But only...Yes only-
If the choice is a must.
Nothing & Silence. A pool of blood tickling the eschewed grass. Red swallowing mud in its push - away from the source - splashing upon the dunes in its clumsy roll.
A flame was snuffed out today, in its place, a spark spider veined throughout a corpse colouring it in the blackest ink. Life? No.
Soul & Thought. Decisions to be made before judgement. Observation and voice before the verses of her last Poem.
Scylla Ohm. Loved by lecherous men and remembered by the very few close - and remembered a lot less rosy. My modest clothes fluttering sheepishly upon the ground, painting it superficially - that is all I amount to. Some clothes...not even my best, soon to blow away in the wind and rot - useless, it will still exist long after I am dust spread across the land.
Isn't this where I rise? Was heaven a lie? Is there even a return to the elements like some Gianists believe?
All I see is a unclear void. All I hear is a dull ring. I don't smell. I don't feel. I cannot taste.
Is this the existence I am to remain? Where is the Godly force to be expected? When will it descend and judge?
...I am tired of waiting. Are you tired, I wonder?
Quiet blind bliss,
Women chop with clevers in their hands,
Fruits severed with crimson juices flowing,
Down. The. Carved. Treestump.
Which once had a form,
A magnificent being it had been.
Oh how its leaves swayed in the wind,
Spring its mentor after its freedom from winter torture,
Lone yet with purpose,
Yet it fell in a storm.
A human plague that overcame, the creatures of the plain,
And then settled, Nature's worst enemy.
And when it fell,
cold,
the next winter,
A man seeking shelter was stuck coincidently with a splinter,
With rage induced he tore, with a metallic chopping roar!
The tree bled ugly, warm, vital gore.
But that was before, its roots fed on a whore.
Blood diffused between the particles of dirt and more of it descended into cracks left wide from trials from the sun. A drip touches a thirsting root.
Duality is exposed as a spell breaks, and the beginnings of an awakening occurs.
A reaction. A single drop. Godsblood. Meets surface. Splits. The edges repel. Waste. The core soaks. Two reactions. Bark illuminates. Invisible underground. Waste. The other a spark. Another reaction. It sets the tinder ablaze. Two reactions. The flames spread up the root. Root edge is cooled by the deep dank soil. Extraneous. Excessive heat is produced. Three reactions. Warms soil. Resultant reaction: loosens particles and enter stored gases. None of them oxygen. Heat sets pyrolysis of the remaining root into process. Change in chemical composition and physical form. White ash remains. Fumes arise and in exchange with the carbon in the charcoal, produces a unique magical gas. Detonates the carbon dioxide in the root and similarly with the previously stored gases in the soil. Detonations contained in magical bubbles. Suspended in time. Soft exteriors harden into solids. Solids less bouyant than any surrounding gas, yet dense enough to poke its way up through the dirt. Reactions reoccur and processes compile. Several minutes pass. Thousands of pellets rise. Magnetically charged by the surrounding influences. Instantly pull towards each other to form a huge violet mass. Diffuse slowly into the oxygen within the air. Blown across by the wind. Breathed in by a native critter. Expands and permeates into bloodstream and coagulates. That critter dies. Its form continues to move. Guided to a corpse of a woman. An ugly wound in her neck. Observes itself through itself.
In my past life, before the profession that led my body here...I was a happily wed...or was I? It seems too soon in the entirety of my life to have existed so long ago.
Old. Yes I suppose I am. Hundreds of years. A millennia. Truth. In a Memory it is a fact.
The reaction continues as ideas revitalize long since atrophied memories. She starts to remember more of it. I start to learn more of me. Dead? Cannot die. Jagged knife forced amateurly into soft weak skin. In that state I was dead. Yet inside I was alive. A brittle form I was given. A curse. A spell. Its machinations escape me. Solid aggravating fact. A mage, or a priest, or a cleric. All three. Mother of its people. Its people...headless, split torsos, revealed stomach, escaping lives, the oxygen of the entire place sucked up by...me. By mouth? No. Wings. A flap of my wing left a village of a hundred dead. Its leader grew terrible with vengeance. A dark night. A bright flaming comet. A city of ruin in our fight. A sky afire with red Lightning. Dark that leader had become. I see a reflection. A twisted creature. Power abused. I regret a second before I fall. A bolt singes my wings. I fall flightless. Helpless. Land broken. Her face. Rot with undeath. An unseen smile I know is there upon it. A shriek of rage. Shrivelled hands produce a bowl of various creature's hearts. Devours them she does. The blood. The power in the wicked use of the blood. I smile. I cannot die. The Undead Mother knows. She doesn't hesitate. Etches, carves, defiles. It hurts. I do not worry. She carves herself. She rests upon me. It burns. It hurts! A cold courses throughout me. I can feel the apex approaching. A screech dominates my hearing. A void my eyesight. Polymorph...that is what it was called.
Sleep in her form. Her original form. A life after life after life after life. Reborn when her form died. A new name. New slate of memory. A new location. Terrenus, Genesaris, Tellsu Mater, Iselyr, in planes unseen, in places yet known. All in the same form. In each life another stranger met who was unknown. Husbands, companions, wives. Forced to live amongst. Be of a lesser form. Human. Human dreams, human pleasures. But unexpected it was that I learned. I soon mirrored her. I became her. And so she began to wane, to weaken. The strength of my cell lessened. I became Scylla. I lived as Scylla the girl, to Scylla the woman, to Scylla the wife. To then, Scylla the prize and Scylla the pirate. Then to Scylla the maid to Scylla the wench. I rode the form till her sudden death. When I saw release, I took it. I subdued Scylla in her attackers grasp. I let her die. I let myself die. And in a drop of blood, I became free.
All thanks to Ausra, her spark. A splash of water for my slumbered self. Awakening to break from my cage in my next release.
I understand the hatred that brought that terrible spell to me. I think I can even forgive the Undead Mother, the witch of vengeance. Perhaps thank in time. For she still lives...but now slumbers.
The concept of her form escapes her for the moment. But I now know my original form. Unique even among my kind. Physical, material. A fraction of my power.
My Kind. What was it? Oh yes...I was a Thragshei....A God, a plague, a Devil.
Quiet blind bliss,
We ferried across on liquid forgotten from above,
Horizen brought solid with the grace of a dove,
a pure white thing,
It fluttered, buttered and burned on the pan.
Its blood, our gravy,
Between our fingers it ran,
Its flesh, our delight.
A welcome meal during this nervous night,
That cast us along quite well during our flight.
Quiet blind bliss.
I knew it at first glance.
A slumbering cruelty.
A ballroomless dance.
A prison for the sightless,
a hard land forgotten and desired not by any at all.
Like a form left flightless, and broken by a fall.
In Quiet blind bliss, is a tune the village sung,
It grew like a kiss, a poem built per verse long,
A chorus discovered about halfway, through surviving within the fray,
Where mercy was amiss, that lullaby which Death strung.
Reply With Quote
