08-13-2020, 07:28 PM
THE TACTICIAN
Someday I’ll make something out of me, years of imitating mastery only made me a better thief
Gunpowder and smoke. Cruel and rough the edges uncaring hands had carved for her, pulled at seams until an ensnaring, broken mess of open veins and layered scar tissue was she, a lacquered soul lost among ceaseless crimson tides. Dark and heavy, an abyss into which light collapsed and died in the disastrous fanfare accompanying sudden demise, a broken star molded until black hole had she become.
But other did the child that had once been at peace among the folds of gentle slumber, where once ungulates sailed over makeshift fence the swirling kaleidoscope dreams painted against open canvas ruled. The softness of pilfered fleece, a certain shakey sense about the knife given slash to a grin she bore with quiet affection, love filling the holes stardust had fallen from. Certain the pleasantry buried beneath the title of family, yet so too is demise lingering in those corners, behind a false shield the ocean tears craft merely awaiting the time they may drown in the beseeching depths.
( They would drown, swallow the salty tears that fell on fitful little bursts, claim her deathbed as their own )
Against curvature of cranium laid the weak cartilage ears bore, intrusive the endless bloom her sorrow wrought against the stillness, of no matter that which stood between. Do not go, it is not your place. Quiet the hum, a voice not their own gentle as it tapped along aching inner seam, raucous the uproar when disregard the sanity presented in advice. Dim had been their youth, a quiet, sullen thing the innocence they clung to, about trembling shoulders for stolen prize it, yet to this they may only relent.
Childhood trauma visited upon within the unwelcome vision framed by the stillness of accroaching rot. Too young, either that who felt the chilled tips of fingers decay had eaten at until nought but bone may caress blackened intern tissue and the child slow in action, creaking groan accompanying shift. Stay here, where you may dream of better days. Back pushed the discarded assortment that adorned bed, large, ocean crafted from fabric - too much, they are swallowed and beaten, jagged rocks tearing at skin they may not reach - cool the wooden flooring they place shaky paws upon.
Familiar the route, if of a better circumstance the prior approaches. No nightmare threads the broken, hollow edges thoughts fell apart into within the wake of departing nightmare, the tears are there, however, a stinging tide painting dark cheeks. Others - too many their mind screams as though futile attempt to force backpedal may work - a quiet symphony bearing lacklustre sympathy as processed that before them. Between legs woven, robotic the actions, thoughtless even if they knew to move away from the attempted halt others may stage.
HAD THEY NO RIGHT TO KNOW?
These strangers, brief the moment of recall for some as faces swam forth among accumulated tears, bore no right in which action they may take. Unwelcome they, intruders unwanted.
Weak the pitiful manner lips peeled back from enamel, upon edges adorned the dwindling note of a sob laced growl. Already their heart was breaking, crumbling away into nought but dust in their aching chest, even as away from them did attention skip.
Before scene unfolding like the jaws of a beast bearing an endless hunger, never satisfied with the mere morsel it may claim when the dark veil night bore befell the world, into which the child unsteady walked readily. Tall, a mountain made from soft, pliable material , tiny picks the claws seeking purchase. Long and gruelling the struggle, but it was moments, wasn't it, collapse sure to occur when umber settle upon mothers.
Til death do us part.
Quiet words spoken before figure of holy significance, a promise as much as it was an invitation for their own demise. Forth did Harlow's tumble, an imperfect yet loved product of love broken apart by the cruelty wound about fate, downfall a making her own. "Mama, why isn't she waking up." Still the world beside her, singular point among the encroaching darkness sliding against blurred vision. Black and twisted, grief an ebony spike driven into chambers heart possessed, anything else swallowed beneath the mournful keen, sobs mingling into a singular sound.
Closer they crept, as best as they may pressed to her, shied from the chilling body. That is your mother, show some respect. But it wasn't, no longer bore the knife slash smile that spoke volumes her voice may not encase, that had cradled and loved with a gentle flame, storm contained within mortal skin tempered for what she had made with her wife.
But other did the child that had once been at peace among the folds of gentle slumber, where once ungulates sailed over makeshift fence the swirling kaleidoscope dreams painted against open canvas ruled. The softness of pilfered fleece, a certain shakey sense about the knife given slash to a grin she bore with quiet affection, love filling the holes stardust had fallen from. Certain the pleasantry buried beneath the title of family, yet so too is demise lingering in those corners, behind a false shield the ocean tears craft merely awaiting the time they may drown in the beseeching depths.
( They would drown, swallow the salty tears that fell on fitful little bursts, claim her deathbed as their own )
Against curvature of cranium laid the weak cartilage ears bore, intrusive the endless bloom her sorrow wrought against the stillness, of no matter that which stood between. Do not go, it is not your place. Quiet the hum, a voice not their own gentle as it tapped along aching inner seam, raucous the uproar when disregard the sanity presented in advice. Dim had been their youth, a quiet, sullen thing the innocence they clung to, about trembling shoulders for stolen prize it, yet to this they may only relent.
Childhood trauma visited upon within the unwelcome vision framed by the stillness of accroaching rot. Too young, either that who felt the chilled tips of fingers decay had eaten at until nought but bone may caress blackened intern tissue and the child slow in action, creaking groan accompanying shift. Stay here, where you may dream of better days. Back pushed the discarded assortment that adorned bed, large, ocean crafted from fabric - too much, they are swallowed and beaten, jagged rocks tearing at skin they may not reach - cool the wooden flooring they place shaky paws upon.
Familiar the route, if of a better circumstance the prior approaches. No nightmare threads the broken, hollow edges thoughts fell apart into within the wake of departing nightmare, the tears are there, however, a stinging tide painting dark cheeks. Others - too many their mind screams as though futile attempt to force backpedal may work - a quiet symphony bearing lacklustre sympathy as processed that before them. Between legs woven, robotic the actions, thoughtless even if they knew to move away from the attempted halt others may stage.
HAD THEY NO RIGHT TO KNOW?
These strangers, brief the moment of recall for some as faces swam forth among accumulated tears, bore no right in which action they may take. Unwelcome they, intruders unwanted.
Weak the pitiful manner lips peeled back from enamel, upon edges adorned the dwindling note of a sob laced growl. Already their heart was breaking, crumbling away into nought but dust in their aching chest, even as away from them did attention skip.
Before scene unfolding like the jaws of a beast bearing an endless hunger, never satisfied with the mere morsel it may claim when the dark veil night bore befell the world, into which the child unsteady walked readily. Tall, a mountain made from soft, pliable material , tiny picks the claws seeking purchase. Long and gruelling the struggle, but it was moments, wasn't it, collapse sure to occur when umber settle upon mothers.
Til death do us part.
Quiet words spoken before figure of holy significance, a promise as much as it was an invitation for their own demise. Forth did Harlow's tumble, an imperfect yet loved product of love broken apart by the cruelty wound about fate, downfall a making her own. "Mama, why isn't she waking up." Still the world beside her, singular point among the encroaching darkness sliding against blurred vision. Black and twisted, grief an ebony spike driven into chambers heart possessed, anything else swallowed beneath the mournful keen, sobs mingling into a singular sound.
Closer they crept, as best as they may pressed to her, shied from the chilling body. That is your mother, show some respect. But it wasn't, no longer bore the knife slash smile that spoke volumes her voice may not encase, that had cradled and loved with a gentle flame, storm contained within mortal skin tempered for what she had made with her wife.
code by Reggan