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Micha Aug 2018
I stand amidst blue eyes.
Hearts, flowers, life, tower around my soles. Creation obeys my pattern.
Unending hills in the cliffsides of my sights' peak silence my dreams, blinding my imagination's capacity. Blinding my livlihood's achievments. Blinding me.
Wind throws growth off coarse. I feel the cold air stain my scars. I feel the life dissipate through my eyes and arms.
Never-ending hate drowns my guilt, proving the impossible to be impossible. Ice, fire, gravel wounds me. Their wounds fuel what remain.
You stand amidst brown eyes.
Ashes, thorns, death, tower around your souls. Creation obeys your pattern.
Micha Aug 2018
All I see are sounds
The colors of the sky dance beneath me
I feel the nightmares of my woken blood
The silence of their hearts echo in my souls' mind
The tolls of their ashes burn away my skin
and replace its nerves with admittance of fools
Quaked trembles torment the nerves of infinite, mild sight
And burn away the skin of those yet sane
Barriers halt our desperation
Locking our convinced freedom
Stealing away the mentality we adore
All we hear is pain
All we feel is mockery
All we taste is blood
All we sense is their unending cries
Yet all I see are sounds
Loud silence
Micha Jul 2018
Collapsed remains of mighty stones stand amidst the horrors before the end.

Continuous inaudible screams of insanity emit from an endless, shallow river, flowing across both ends of the world, beyond sight, beyond reason.

The velvet skies, filled with threats of approaching storms, trapped in a constant cycle of disownment, its thunder clashing against the roars of scarring streams.

The countless dead search lanterns' light for fulfillment within their dry, silent hearts, their mindsets shattered from the howls of their brothers' lasting breaths.

Gravel shores, crushed towers, - eternally paralyzed remains plant the field of acid, fueling the flames of the fortunate.

Cloaked skeletons of once noble men guide paths away from their father's arrogant goals, believing they've succeeded evading the demise they remain within.

The acid of the waters burn away the sanity of those with none. Its air chokes those who breath It. Its sight blinds those who witness Its numbing view. Its image, wounds those who feel Its unwilling collection of pain.

Planted hillsides of blackened ash tower over the horizon's sight. The storms above, cutting the realm into mindful darkness and disposition.

The surface remains littered with sulfuric mold, cloaking the floating bones of Its worthless fodder.

Hellfire rains down through the air. The blinding sparks dissipate into Its nerves. The golden glow dimly lighting the fragile night.

Black, burning islands float amidst drifting souls, lost in themselves for millennia, while rising mist blankets the river, trapping the ignorant onto a path of despair.

The skulls of endless souls remind the keepers of sanity that they remain cursed with their forceful, endless demise.
Micha Jul 2018
I know I am able; I simply do not wish to.

I know I must, but I cannot.

I do not understand.

Is my presence less than favoured? Does my icy touch not cool you enough? Is there a form of negative abnormality I hold above your heads which you envy or despise?

What is left of me that you've forgotten? I assume you believe me to be uncharitable. You have forgotten my demands, yet you exaggerate my wishes to meet the needs of the view you hold me against.

I know I am able; I simply do not wish to.

I know I must; I simply care less than you require of me.

I know I would—if it pleased me, but it does not.

I know. I do not care.
Micha Jul 2018
Cold winds shadow the sounds of crashing ice.

The frozen sky is cleared of its color, replaced with brightened lights of distant stars, hoarding their views of the infinite darkness.

The ground hides beneath a floor of endless, white snow, questionably stained with ageless rust, reaching out towards the edges of sight.

Mountains, old and curved, steal the horizons away from view, reaching for the heat it slowly drifts from.

Fields of ice and sand drench the grounds, building over what they were destined to be, and what they will be again in countless years to come.

Beyond ravines and countless cliff sides, cold geysers erupt from the surface, throwing shards of their core into the thinned, yet imprisoning atmosphere.

The air has neither sound nor song, though only the constant ending of lengthened, imagined bells, adding to the blissful, yet terrifying silence.

Nothing moves. Nothing lives. Nothing grows beyond time.

— The End —