| requiem_grey | ||
| -{::ephemeral_arcs::}- |
A heart of his solitude sprang forth, it was awash with the joys of his grey demeanor. He held it like a babe, and washed it only in the saddest of rains. And when he wasn't using it, he set it upon an old knarled wooden shelf, carrying with it it's own ashen grey demeanor, and when it was there, he was sure he was the only one who could see it, though it was a perfectly noticable object. He took a stroll among the monocolored gateway of the forest, and lost himself in the vaporing puddles left from the last rain. They were like mirrors, but they only reflected the grey skies above. And he wept for them, they were his hands and his eyes. They didn't hold him in contempt in the end, and so he could be happy with his hands and eyes. A weaving must eventually unravel. And so he wept for them. And he sung a beautiful dirge for it horribly, his own voice tumbling over the heavings of his tears and choked mourning. |
020619 |