~ The Little Girl's Tale ~

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Preserver
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~ The Little Girl's Tale ~

Post by Preserver » Wed Apr 24, 2019 10:27 am

The slow and agonizing cracking of wood accompanies a windswept night.
Fire devours logs in the chimney, casting tongues without and shadows of those that stand beside, sitting on comfortable chairs whilst enjoying the spectacle of burning wood. One's amber eyes linger onto that very same show: there is just a hint of hatred in them, for to witness the acts of the natural agent of purification still remains unpleasant.
She is not alone: another sits beside her on an armchair much akin to hers. Their identity is hard to decipher, and yet the woman speaks to such person as if they were close. Wether such vicinity is caused by mutual love, respect, friendship or hatred is unclear. The amber-eyed woman licks her lower lip as she raises her soft voice to speak, fire giving rythm to her sentences.


Many years ago, born before people knew,
there was a girl. Lovely strut in shameless youth,
ice-blue eyes, red hair and beauty matched by few.

She had gentle hands, her skin was pale and smooth,
as such to her time was naught but wicked foe.
She never was unkind, not a word uncouth,

and yet as time passed her soul filled just with woe.
For she sought to remain a sweet child forever,
close to the warm sun, refusing the cold snow.

None in the world was found such a girl to sever,
to her grew old the soul and did the body rot
but still she always thought of having been so clever.

Beauty of skin was lost, perfect she was not,
all those she did care for looked at her in disdain,
all the gentle ways her wizened mind forgot.

To boys and girls she did become just wicked bane
and those who loved her still, if just for memory,
hoped that she would die, no agony, no pain.

Still no rest, no bliss, no chance for reverie,
still some do hope that azure eyes will close,
still do they oft look for wicked treachery.

But truth is that no wickedness rests now in those
who'd see her purified of all that rotten grime,
who'd see her gasp and moan in final deathly throes.

And soon the winds will bring, echoing with the chime,
the answer to her pain, the closure to her screams,
an answer to the one who has been lost time.

Rest now girl, make wicked dreams,
let your tears run down like streams.
Soon you shall be reborn,
and forget every scorn.
Life will sprout anew,
for you we shall hew.
Death and rebirth,
we sing with mirth.
Pale scream
into dream.
Arelith.


As the rythmed poem ends, she gazes further into the fire, deeply inhaling her wrong rotten scent.
Breathing out she feels closer to the fixed mass whose sides the ages are.


Image

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~ Yachta - ~ Providence (Dead!)


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