Fortifying, receiving, and comforting. That is what a home should be. When the ties and knots of the world have your soul and heart twisted and contorted into the unmanageable mess of a human being; combined and fused with the graces of both heaven and hell. For the floors are coated in blood and the walls cry with the tears of the victims; shed in times of torment and joy. With the everlasting morning souls of the ones left behind and the ones that kept themselves alive in spite of the illnesses, and injuries. The bones that can shatter just as glass, and the mind that can be torn to and fro like the vary land we stand upon once it becomes unstable.
At times the kings look and whisper into the minds of the current occupants of these walls to turn and run away. But like the def of the world they dare not hear the whispers of the conquered in fear of being called the weak and crazy, keeping their place if only to be strong for the one who looks into their face.
As night falls the fresh blood gets pumped into the house rising the level once again as the wood slowly drinks of the torments the occupants sit in-front o their mirrors whispering soft and quote truths to them selves hopping the feeling of teeth gnawing on their toes and the balls of their feet is just a dream. Rising to their feet and walking into the bed room of their spouse; Walking softly as to not disturb them. As they walk their steps are slowed and staggered by some form of ailment. To the naked eye it could be described as intoxication, or a lack of sleep. But to the one walking they know what impedes their feet from slipping closer to the door. Like the weeds of the valley and the tumble weeds of the deserts they spring up. Breaking the floor boards and stretching the blood like a plastic sheet made to contain their horror. A million hands spring up and reach for the flesh that tempts their hunger. Gripping and tearing into the flesh with nails looking like the hands of pure evil has carved them they reach. A sharp and serrated edge adorns the tips. Pulling the fresh skin clean off the bone and drops further into the .abyss of blood; still the hands continue to reach the numbing effects of the body take a hold and the one no longer feels the pain caused by the shredding of their own flesh. Stepping lightly the hands slow but still cause their damage but progress can be made. And as the door swings open their he is the one person believed to be able to fix the horror of this house sits on a small stool made of the vary blood that sends and unleashes the same breed of hands to shred his flesh. Not bothering to look over his shoulder he sits quietly. Fighting back the urge to cry and the pain once again returns to his mind and his heart drops another farthing into his soul.
Silently a hand slides along his skin. And for once the chilling effect of her fingers makes him smile. Slowly the hands retract from his wounds and for once the pain abides with no threat of return. Lifting his head up from his somber and solitude resting place he sees her face, searching for any sign of distrust or fear that he may use to slip away form her once again. But something about her touch is different, the elicit grace that she uses to lift his hands and in time his body from the stool and to his feet. Places him in awe, and as he slides his hands over hers; her face brightens almost immediately as she feels his warmth run into her blood. As if for the first time his skin touches hers. Softly grassing the top of her hand he smiles in return, and in that moment; when all of the presser and turmoil in the world seamed to be crashing down on his heart and the missions of scars received at the hands of the devils slaves digging for a short taste of freedom.
Like the beasts of ambition that consume our world with fire and steel. We want not, nor do we hunger for their progress. But still we give in; taking the weaker path and bleeding like a stuffed big hot in the oven. Our skin burns into the amber charcoal that acts like brick mason once the heat and juices are evaporated from our hold. Out blood thickens and seals our mussels in imperfection till out dyeing breath is pulled from our bodies and spilt to the world. Telling our tales and letting the missions of people that would look upon us with scorn and anger. Hunger for what we now have and what we left behind for the ones near and dear to us. Gripping tight to the thin vale that held our eyes closed for so many years. Years spent in defilement of our god and in solitude, selfishness, and lust. The times we look back on as our best and when we held the most pride. Now burn our souls with guilt and pain. We knowing what our wrongs are lower our heads in shame and take our punishment and places of power if they are offered as the truest graces of god. But for the ones that feel there is no after life and flaunt their health and power for the wrong soon being themselves before the king of kings; standing in a shroud as black as the moonless nights in the desert, and coated in dry blood form the thousands of people they now have behind them dying in disbelief and distrust. Slitting their wrists they try to ease the presser inside their bodies once the pure walk by and their blood boils. Hungering to be like them, clad in the purists of whites and walking with a grace only reserved for the truly humble in heart.
In these passages the tales of a hero have been written but not acted on. The times of life never stop rolling by; Even when we lie down our heads to rest and dream of the queen of our hearts. There is no time o do what you wish and the world continues to hold you far fro her. But soon the words will run out and all their will be is the feeling. And it is my hope that through these ranting and preaching that a feeling has been imbedded into a soul. If only to leave a seed for some new generation to pour water and nurture to a strong fait; If even this is possible than nothing is impossible
 morti_cacciatore · Thu Dec 06, 2007 @ 09:39pm · 0 Comments |
