bleeding spirits { ravensteel } phresh
Nov 18, 2017 16:10:39 GMT -5
Post by calla on Nov 18, 2017 16:10:39 GMT -5
you rise and fall
back up against the wall
what goes around is
coming back and haunting you
Disappearing acts and scattered heart beats.
We are the lucky few.
Left behind with the synthetic smell of training mats and the bite of a sword hilt in our palms, there's purpose here, in this tirade of energy. There's an escape in the form of violence, in early morning slashes and sweat sheens.
Following in the footsteps of idols and dreamers, never good enough but we push harder because don't you want to be immortal? Heroes always seem to get the girl in the end, a fairy tale ending, but we all gave up heroics a long time ago. Buried with childhood and thrown away with innocence. The burning of bed time stories, hopes and dreams seem so infantile when you're surviving on spite and vengeance.
There's a special kind of ignorance in bruised knuckles and drowned out thoughts, swinging a sword until you're numb just to feel something other than rage. Self destruction might end up killing us before anyone can make a move.
An eye for an eye is the saying, echoing across alleyways, and I've been waiting for Brynden to return the favour for much too long. The day of reckoning only stands out in hindsight. A whirlwind of rage, bloodlust spilling red onto my hands and a sudden moment of holy fuck. But it's fleeting and the burn still sits low in my gut because you can't just pass shit like that off as an accident.
( Maybe it's not quite an accident if you revel in it afterwards. )
Opposite sides of a coin, Bloodraven and Bittersteel, facades built to endure and hold legions together. More alike than either wants to admit because who's going to be the one to accept villainy?
Heroes are the ones who always get the girl.
But now Brynden says he has an army, eyes all over the district and outcasted careers grovelling behind him with violence tattooed into their skin. A craving reflected in their eyes, echoing across the distance to harbour in my own sorry followers.
Watching your own back is second nature now, a looming threat waiting around the corner and everyone is on edge from the tension hanging in the air. There's a war coming and I can feel it in my bones, the call of a h a r b r i n g e r , with a telltale ache that sings of crushed ribs and watercolour bruises. Old lessons hammered into my skull and onto my blade, listen son, you've got to cut them all down before they do the same to you. It's all there in the history books.
Selfish and spiteful.
A limb from a training dummy falls to the floor with a synthetic thunk.
And maybe I'm a piece of shit, a catalyst for a war that shouldn't even be started in the first place. There's already been casualties, but if anything they've fueled the growing fire. Egos can be groomed to peak status again and gunshot hauntings can be drowned out with delicately placed hatred. I'm sure Damon will be fine. Giving him a reason to hate Brynden, whispers from the shadows because hey, you didn't hear it from me, and fuck it because I guess I really am an awful person. But brimstone and hellfire's already calling my name and if I go down then I'll make sure he fucking burns with me.
Guilt in my throat, a threatening chokehold from brothers in arms, Damon and Quentyn and Aegor, a song of the sweetest betrayal and I'm s o r r y.
But not enough to stop.
A cacophony of lies, itching for a fight with a broken bottle at four a.m because you're just like your father. Masquerading in front of broken mirrors, reflections distorted because no one's who they say they are anymore.
Trying to pick up the pieces but I cut my hands on the shards, it doesn't hurt anymore and it's because there's a theme here.
Welcome to the war.
back up against the wall
what goes around is
coming back and haunting you
Disappearing acts and scattered heart beats.
We are the lucky few.
Left behind with the synthetic smell of training mats and the bite of a sword hilt in our palms, there's purpose here, in this tirade of energy. There's an escape in the form of violence, in early morning slashes and sweat sheens.
Following in the footsteps of idols and dreamers, never good enough but we push harder because don't you want to be immortal? Heroes always seem to get the girl in the end, a fairy tale ending, but we all gave up heroics a long time ago. Buried with childhood and thrown away with innocence. The burning of bed time stories, hopes and dreams seem so infantile when you're surviving on spite and vengeance.
There's a special kind of ignorance in bruised knuckles and drowned out thoughts, swinging a sword until you're numb just to feel something other than rage. Self destruction might end up killing us before anyone can make a move.
An eye for an eye is the saying, echoing across alleyways, and I've been waiting for Brynden to return the favour for much too long. The day of reckoning only stands out in hindsight. A whirlwind of rage, bloodlust spilling red onto my hands and a sudden moment of holy fuck. But it's fleeting and the burn still sits low in my gut because you can't just pass shit like that off as an accident.
( Maybe it's not quite an accident if you revel in it afterwards. )
Opposite sides of a coin, Bloodraven and Bittersteel, facades built to endure and hold legions together. More alike than either wants to admit because who's going to be the one to accept villainy?
Heroes are the ones who always get the girl.
But now Brynden says he has an army, eyes all over the district and outcasted careers grovelling behind him with violence tattooed into their skin. A craving reflected in their eyes, echoing across the distance to harbour in my own sorry followers.
Watching your own back is second nature now, a looming threat waiting around the corner and everyone is on edge from the tension hanging in the air. There's a war coming and I can feel it in my bones, the call of a h a r b r i n g e r , with a telltale ache that sings of crushed ribs and watercolour bruises. Old lessons hammered into my skull and onto my blade, listen son, you've got to cut them all down before they do the same to you. It's all there in the history books.
Selfish and spiteful.
A limb from a training dummy falls to the floor with a synthetic thunk.
And maybe I'm a piece of shit, a catalyst for a war that shouldn't even be started in the first place. There's already been casualties, but if anything they've fueled the growing fire. Egos can be groomed to peak status again and gunshot hauntings can be drowned out with delicately placed hatred. I'm sure Damon will be fine. Giving him a reason to hate Brynden, whispers from the shadows because hey, you didn't hear it from me, and fuck it because I guess I really am an awful person. But brimstone and hellfire's already calling my name and if I go down then I'll make sure he fucking burns with me.
Guilt in my throat, a threatening chokehold from brothers in arms, Damon and Quentyn and Aegor, a song of the sweetest betrayal and I'm s o r r y.
A cacophony of lies, itching for a fight with a broken bottle at four a.m because you're just like your father. Masquerading in front of broken mirrors, reflections distorted because no one's who they say they are anymore.
Trying to pick up the pieces but I cut my hands on the shards, it doesn't hurt anymore and it's because there's a theme here.
Welcome to the war.
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