Jun 2015
The martyr is a creature of rock and a beast of burden.
The stones he carries are his own. They are sown into his pockets next to his bottles of whispers. The familiar texture of the rock, like the embrace of an old friend, comforts him. Little does he know the stones he cherishes scuttle his soul.
Deeper and deeper he goes, and the lust for air ricochets against the inner walls of his skull and carves his face like a blade to warm butter. But he doesn’t mind. He bears his agony on his sleeve, a badge of honor from a war that was lost before it began.
He’s crucified on a cross of hope, holding out for the view of the surface he will never see again.
To him, hope is a challenge, hope is a virtue, and virtue is a vanity for the martyr is nothing if not vain.
But even as the darkness encloses around him he finds solitude. To him, this is a worthy drowning.
The stones he carries are his own. They are sown into his pockets next to his bottles of whispers. The familiar texture of the rock, like the embrace of an old friend, comforts him. Little does he know the stones he cherishes scuttle his soul.
Deeper and deeper he goes, and the lust for air ricochets against the inner walls of his skull and carves his face like a blade to warm butter. But he doesn’t mind. He bears his agony on his sleeve, a badge of honor from a war that was lost before it began.
He’s crucified on a cross of hope, holding out for the view of the surface he will never see again.
To him, hope is a challenge, hope is a virtue, and virtue is a vanity for the martyr is nothing if not vain.
But even as the darkness encloses around him he finds solitude. To him, this is a worthy drowning.
