quiet hours, turning to years | ronan/cynthia
Nov 10, 2015 1:34:22 GMT -5
Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Nov 10, 2015 1:34:22 GMT -5
[presto]
CYNTHIA S U M M I T
[/presto]{ and i will hold you tight
like the moon in the arms of the sky
and i will keep you warm
i will build a fire in this house ;
like the moon in the arms of the sky
and i will keep you warm
i will build a fire in this house ;
Blood of the dawn, scarlet and gold, rolls its kiss over the horizon and copses of pines, great green skyscrapers that pour the darkness of its long shadows where the light does not dare tread its delicate dancer feet.
And the wind chants the doleful tune of a funeral march, gradually rising from a raspy whisper to a beautiful, heart-wrenching scream that reaches its arms outward for the sanctuary of the receding moon and its curls of silver breath.
Tears of the sun, pale golden rain upon the valleys of my sky soaked skin, leave rivers of ashen scars in their winding path down my body. And the sear of their touch is the embrace of bliss, a beautiful piece of paradise.
I inhale forests of needles and exhale my own pools of blood, like red red tar, but agony cradles me into its horrifically sanguine romance and sweeps me into asylum of its saving arms; I have never been more enamored with the pain of living and the way it twists my bones in the midst of our ballroom frolic and crushes them with its elegantly small fingers until they snap snap snap.
For a lesson was fired into my eyes from a television screen:
every breath we draw into our feeble lungs is a privilege.
Paint my skin crimson with my own blood, shower me with the white of my own bones, and gratitude for a simple breath of air will weave its way through my screams. The graveyard is not the kingdom in which I roam; my castle is beneath the dance of the sun and the kiss of the clouds.
Retreat is not in their code, these choruses of war in my clockwork mind, tick tick ticking away the time time time. And they raise an earthquake from the depths of a hell, rattling my bones like tumbling towers and striking rifts through my hollowing porcelain body.
She does not emerge from the newborn crevices; she had never left my side, not for a single fleeting moment.
Stella hangs from my lips, a shadow, a ghost. Mother once told me I was full of poison and I have found that her words hold true, for Stella, her name, is the once clandestine poison tucked between my teeth. Poison, poison, so thick and lovely on my tongue.
And I've grown to relish the taste, to swallow the syrupy rains like candy.
Stella is the dark shroud around my heart, the space in my eyes, the ache that bites down on my veins. She is -
my misery, my pain, and
my paradise.
I swear, I see ghosts along these paths: I see Stella entwined in the fringes of the trees framing the worn strip of pavement. I see Sue Tate resting in the current of the lazy creeks, bursting into a forest song. I see Margaret DuBois broken in a smile, tucked into the -
No, I see Margaret DuBois.
I see her - her and her body, animated once more by the touch of life I had thought had been stolen by the avaricious hands of Katelyn Persimmon, left permanently stained by her golden ichor.
The girl who was once eternities from my fingertips now stands only feet away from me and I swear I am nearly
falling into her.
Delicate hand on the shoulder of a ghost.
One word, called out into the caustic morning air as if it was an abyss,
"Margaret?"
{ and i'll build the fire
you fetch the water and i'll lay the table
and in our hearts we still pray for
sons and daughters ;
you fetch the water and i'll lay the table
and in our hearts we still pray for
sons and daughters ;
. . .
table: fox.
lyrics: "sons and daughters"
by allman brown and liz lawrence.
lyrics: "sons and daughters"
by allman brown and liz lawrence.