Rant and rant away in my head They slit my arm until it bled Blurry images stir and wake Why does it all feel so fake?
Red ribbons stream across the sky Memories of once known times collide The smell and heat of burning wood The flash of eyes under a hood
Quick and aimfully I walk with bare feet The smell and taste of rotting meat The crackling notes of the red fire The voices of the crowd reach higher
Past the guards and up the stairs On the back of my neck stand up the hairs Run my hands along the wall of stone My footsteps quiet, I'm all alone
The shiver down my spine runs deep But in my shallow breath I keep As I get closer to the source The truth and reason of this discord
With bated breath I creep along I faintly hear the notes of the song The song of the ruler and the king I know in my heart I cannot let him win
I've been through much to reach this place Trials, battles, loss, blood, and heartache And when I meet him I shall merely utter the quote Quietly, before sending an arrow through his throat
But here I am now, beaten and worn My forehead bleeding and my clothing torn Held as prisoner in this dark cold cell It is my epitome of a living hell
Finally decide to just lie on the floor Curled up next to the crack in the door From where I hear the quiet voices Made up of whispers and of choices
How to escape this I place I do not know I must escape before in sets the snow But as my eyes close and my breath gently leaves My heart becomes still, it no longer grieves
For though I've had troubles and tribulations I have come to a greater realization That although I could not fulfill this quest I took It does not matter, for this is all merely a book.
What if characters somehow realized they were merely that, a character in a book? Some characters seem completely and utterly real to us, yet we can decide to close a book half way through and for us their story would never be finish. To me, characters are immortal, for we can go back and visit them whenever we please. But what if characters died when we forgot about them, or when we stopped reading about them? As a writer and book lover these questions are always on my mind.