| Thursday, August 4, 2011
A gentle night breeze, caressing the cheeks of the condemned.
Chained to the posts, shards and daggers driven oh so happily into them.
The condemned, how old are they?
Mere children, aged beyond their years, staring out at the bleak landscape they saw little of.
A gentle night breeze, caressing the cheeks of the condemned.
The night brought a frost, ice slowly devouring the children as they stood.
No movement, just the desolate stares, the blood flowing happily, slowly.
Everything frozen around them, the children stood, blood flowing happily, slowly.
So cold, yet they never froze.
How could something colder than the frost freeze?
A gentle night breeze, caressing the cheeks of the condemned.
The youngest child, still clutching her beloved pen,
Fingers broken and bent at odd angles,
Flesh carefully sliced off by the merciless red pens.
Yet the pen trembled with her effort in the night air,
The eyes breaking past the oppression of the night to catch glimpses of the utopia.
A gentle night breeze, caressing the cheeks of the condemned.
The oldest, the most mature, the blind.
Having lost the precious early into the night,
Her icy heart clouded the mind and numbed the tools.
A gentle night breeze, caressing the cheeks of the condemned.
Yet the middle child, the conflicted child,
Broken, crushed, yet seeing the oasis so clearly.
Pens hidden in the folds of her tattered dress,
dreams kept her warm.
But the gentleness did not last long.
Soon the heat from the monster was felt,
The heat so oppressing, so controlling.
The oldest, already broken,
did as she was told, but was the first to burn.
The youngest, so childishly innocent, so full of the futile hope,
burnt, the screams of agony echoing deep into the merciless night.
The conflicted child,
did what the rules dictated,
trying desperately to encourage the continued flow of ink from her beloved pens.
Attempts to stop the flow once and for all nearly succeeded several times,
but there the emphasis is on nearly.
The daggers and shards of the night stayed with her,
Slashing and rending at the heart as they saw fit.
The ink continued to create.
New worlds, universes, creatures,
brought to life under the skillful manipulation and creation.
Fantasies, dreams, vividly imagined,
a pinprick of light in the barren desolateness.
The ink continued to create.
Ink, black as the night, as the claws that reached for the child.
But so colourful under skillful manipulation,
The worlds created threatening to replace the unhappy reality.
The child wished for the fantasy to become reality,
but illusion will always be illusion,
and what is not to be will never be.
As the cuts deepened,
the hurt methodically slicing through the meagre defenses,
the little grass seed struggled to sprout in the stony crack.
And as the many days of reckoning came and left,
A tiny violet flower bloomed,
colour returning to bring life back to the dank depression,
The As lying trampled as forgotten as the child broke free of the chains of expectation,
and ran to explore her utopia.
the spring will not dry up
the imagination stays
wish hope dreams
violet happiness
,
the purple piggy oinked 4:26 AM
