wilder minds; niam [jb; blitz]
Sept 28, 2015 16:36:10 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Sept 28, 2015 16:36:10 GMT -5
cody bowers-fox
I do not wish for my brother to break the space between us with words better left unspoken.
We had been standing on opposing sides of the battlefield for the time wasted between us spent over, lining up our cannons with the weak spots in our opponent’s armor and praying that our fire would not be drowned out by the sounds of screaming. There was no moral opposition on my end of the carnage, aiming only for the shot that would wound, not kill.
His lover knew of my strategy and in layman’s terms, deemed it a breach of ethical code.
For he was a fighter for the sound things, for the just, the righteous, the damned, and everything in between. His warfare consisted of shallow shots and wiser words, psychologically sound and morally correct between every fine line and letter.
I was blotted ink on the peace treaty, never stopping to wait for the words to dry before smearing every sense of sanity that could have been threaded between the sentences strewn upon them. He was art in the darker times, ahead of his own and destined for a throne, yet I was signified by sword and scowl, a child of barefoot blues he had painted me a shade of red when he fell from his place in favor of a brother undeserving of his burden.
His lover knew of my heart and was always the better half of my brother’s counterpart.
So when her frame fits through the door in lieu of his I feel no sorrow, instead washed over by the overwhelming relief that I will not have to tell Duncan Bowers-Fox goodbye, for our departing messages had been spoken the day my older brother had been damned to die a hero’s fate.
Lover’s note still clutched in my palm— there is nothing to be found in one hundred eighty seconds of menial conversation, “I hope your advice entails something more than a final black eye.”
We had been standing on opposing sides of the battlefield for the time wasted between us spent over, lining up our cannons with the weak spots in our opponent’s armor and praying that our fire would not be drowned out by the sounds of screaming. There was no moral opposition on my end of the carnage, aiming only for the shot that would wound, not kill.
His lover knew of my strategy and in layman’s terms, deemed it a breach of ethical code.
For he was a fighter for the sound things, for the just, the righteous, the damned, and everything in between. His warfare consisted of shallow shots and wiser words, psychologically sound and morally correct between every fine line and letter.
I was blotted ink on the peace treaty, never stopping to wait for the words to dry before smearing every sense of sanity that could have been threaded between the sentences strewn upon them. He was art in the darker times, ahead of his own and destined for a throne, yet I was signified by sword and scowl, a child of barefoot blues he had painted me a shade of red when he fell from his place in favor of a brother undeserving of his burden.
His lover knew of my heart and was always the better half of my brother’s counterpart.
So when her frame fits through the door in lieu of his I feel no sorrow, instead washed over by the overwhelming relief that I will not have to tell Duncan Bowers-Fox goodbye, for our departing messages had been spoken the day my older brother had been damned to die a hero’s fate.
Lover’s note still clutched in my palm— there is nothing to be found in one hundred eighty seconds of menial conversation, “I hope your advice entails something more than a final black eye.”
