Here's some more. Ah, the good old days. If I didn't know any better, I would call myself emo
"A Close Distance" - February 18, 2007
My eyes burn. My limbs ache. My lungs breathe fire. My mind spins through Borealis like wings of dew kissed satin and as I fall, rods of frigid iron and rotting dust claw at my fingertips. My senses begin to recede.
Through the eyeglass, I see a child.....and through the child I see a shaken darkness. A hollow twilight that ponders of it's own continuance. Oh, where is your master now? Gone is it that would spare your misled footsteps. Gone is it that would reclaim teardrops felt wasted and past moments bitterly held. A new Lord of the Dusk has taken seat, and with it, perhaps, a child is set adrift in the eventide of glass and shadows, shards of an imperfect paragon.
Now I see that it is too late, and to my sorrow, that I who have misplaced my reliance in base desires have learned of my fate. So I will continue to wander, and await my silent repose in Kismet, where all traveling souls go, and join the precious few that wait within the walls of air for themselves to return.
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"A Skewed Reflection" - February 25, 2007
His eyes sunken with tiredness, a man gazed across a barren landscape. Despair and sadness filled his thoughts and his eyes welled up with the emotion of seeing his homeland for the first time in ages. Ravaged trees and blackened grass was all to be viewed of a disposed settlement of men. No names could escape the man's lips as he scoured the recesses of his brain for some memory of what it used to be. Only a child when last here, he could only guess what was real, and what was made up fantasy as he dreamed of his displaced country.
"Oh how, once thought of as proud, does my past come to this ruin of a life?" the man spoke to himself. "When do the beautiful relics of antiquity become tarnished with the sword of evil and conquest? Why am I to be left with nothing but a flutter of nostalgia for time turned bitter?"
He dropped to his knees and grasped a handful of rotting dirt and charred foliage. "Now, here, after the end of all things once thought good, I am truly lost. Alone, to wander, I must elsewhere find my peace in this world."
He rubbed the dry, rocky earth between his fingers and with that, he was gone.
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"Cloudburst" - April 16, 2007
He felt heavy. His boots caked with oozing mud. His jacket soaked through with the habitual downpour. His dark hair matted and tangled, sweeping into his sunken eyes. The arduous strain of his interminable journey was beginning to wear him down. Slowly, ever picking at his chilled brain, hopelessness was creeping and gnawing at his will.
Where was he going? He didn't know. He didn't care. All he wanted was to push on. Never coming, never going, and never stopping. No life of his did he want to live, yet no death would suffice either. An impasse was reached and so he just left it all behind, never looking back.
His footing stumbled and gurgled in the muck, flecking bits of wet earth up onto his pale face and into his dry mouth. Curses escaped his lips again and again as he hexed those responsible for his plight. Names without faces and faces without names. Anyone and anything that he could bend to his wishes would make a decent patsy in his thoughts.
Then slipping on a protruding slick-rock, his body flailed wildly in the wind as he tried to retain his balance, but to no success. Colliding with a nearby weeping willow, he sunk down onto his knees and buried his sallow hands into the bubbling dirt, craggy rocks tearing at his flesh.
He then felt, for the first time in his short, ignoble existence, darkness. Not some intangible notion of melancholy, bitterness, or even sly evil. A darkness inside that only sprouts roots when the mind is lost. Some say there is no such thing as death of the soul. That may, or may not, be true but for certain, this man would agree to the death of the spirit and the overthrowing of reason.
The pain was gone. The aching muscles subsided. The cold and the fear faded into the blackness. The memories smelted in his brain until all that was left was a shell. A walking corpse with no name. A canvas painted with madness.
It was then that he decided, fallen angels hold no sway for those who care and fallen angels show no pity for those who merely pretend.