bathesda's swan (bathesdas_swan) wrote,
bathesda's swan

  • Music:
Her skirt went swishing through love-stained branches; two ivory impressions on a marigold litter of leaves and summer-fed soil. She resolved to keep her eyes straight, though the trees were tinged with husky pine scents and the faint echoes of hatchlings on high. She said she'd like to kill herself. She said she'd like to do a lot of things. She had avowed to never be inspired again, neither by word nor touch nor vampiric kiss. Her countenance was one of happiness, her chest, though, held broken hearts. And her heartstrings, stretched taut and snapped, stripped of gold lining, were splayed out from her mouth. But smile she did, nonetheless - with charming, crooked, white, emo teeth, and bronze strings too - from the depths of her, out. She had never worn braces, and the feeling was unfamiliar. Abandonment slept in the corner of her smile, and a history of hindu gods she rendered to the bonfire. Hers was a hand bent on destruction, and all of creation cringed at her coming, and wept. The witching trees tugged on her sleeves. Cold vines crept up her legs. She stepped in the places her Lover had stepped - back in a time when they had walked together - but the footprints were quicksand, and she sank. The avowal to never be inspired again, neither by promise or blessing. Up went her shriek. Close sprung up, a cacophony of movement and flight. The treetops, tousled, and she, sinking sweetly. And the underbellies of birds - broke the agreement. All is a mockery.

It is, again, twilight perpetual. A good time for turtlenecks. Harbor warmth in your arms.
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