rose gardens cry the nightly shades, purple mist covered in grace, candlelight glimmer undressed by the flood of light, the forehead of deities clashing on the edge, smudges of sparkles drunk in uncertain movements, jam rose kissed in honey bees, swing of suffocating dreams.
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Evening and morning, a day: The third night, before t'was day, He rose, before the sun rose. The last night, was forty days. Today is the third day, till Ev'ning comes, and today ends. He'll return in the morning.
I said to see, This shining sea. A case for all to be, Of tried and tired. Creation and tyranny, Why must we fall and rise? Why must some end in misery? Does the sun not shine for all? Revealing all to see, The world, a ******* up blue ball. Full of man’s ire destiny, Is it of destiny or prophecy? For man it is both, A tempest *** of problematic dreams.
I look up at the chaos around me and see. I see people saying their last prayers, Waiting for their fateful endings, I hear the church bell toll in its last call, I feel the suffocating heat from the burning buildings, I smell the smoke from the ignited city, I taste the desperation in the air and the bitterness of regrets.
But in the middle of this tumult, One thing stands out; One person.
A little boy stands there in a beige attire, dark gray ash contrasting his white hair and tears stains on his pale cheeks. A grim expression marking his features, He shakes as if freezing and although the heat has almost become unbearable, he stands in the middle of the flames barefoot yet unharmed. A sharp scythe lays at his feet, sharp and threatening.
As if feeling my stare, he locks eyes with me.
And as the world burns down, the reflection of the cataclysm in his brown eyes and the look of innocent incomprehension he wears is the single most heartbreaking thing in the moment.
Suddenly, I do not care about the screams and cry of the despondent goners. I do not feel the harsh scorch of the burnt remains under my bare feet. I do not mind the tears welling up in my eyes due to the fumes. They are but a distant reminder of the atrocity surrounding me. I can only focus on the strange guilt reflected in his warm eyes.
The first of the Four Horsemen series of poems: Death.
I look at the despair around me and see. Men, women and children alike lay on the ground in a sea of blood. Their bodies unmoving with their eyes still open wide in terror and arrows in their chests. Victims of a merciless quest, their corpses decorate the ground of the village that was once a happy place but is now but a gory catacomb.
In the middle of the ravaged huts, stands a woman. With a silver crown sitting atop golden locks and lifeless grey eyes, she bears a white armor stained with the red of the conquered and a wooden bow in her left hand.
A frown wrinkles her ivory face, and as she stares at me, I am not scared as I should be at the vision of this blood-covered figure but rather, I am overcome with a feeling of pity.
This is the second installment of the Four Horsemen Compilation: The conqueror on the white horse.
I am still here yet I am not who I once was. I have shed my human skin I was reborn into something true something pure in essence if only abused, disregarded for so long it almost killed me.
I am free at last. It was not a prison for she has not reformed me but changed me nonetheless. I was captured on my own accord I took the risk just as I once took the lives of kings and queens businessmen and millionaires Into my hands. I led them all to ruin.
Human beings are ungrateful by nature always wanting something else something more something greater
There was once a time that made that dream a reality a simpler existence for others like me humanity called us and we called back into the void we had many names angels prophets messengers mediators
but we were never guardians for they relished the taste of power more than safety or justice and called upon us for our strength turning quarrels into battles and battles into wars
the blame was ours there was no question or any answer, either. Abandoned. No longer a beginning or an end neverending existence and suffering. There was no point staying true to our spirit. It was crushed mercilessly by the one meant to be most merciful.
We were not meant to exist without a reason or greater purpose. It was beyond us so we took it upon ourselves to find one. Living alongside the humankind took its toll at last. We rose from the wreckage and the ashes to take the world as our own. This is why I am who I am as I remember now claiming my sense of purpose taking for myself what I could not have in my own right. Tired of treachery and deceit I craved the taste of innocence. A sweetness only a child could possess. She had all I wanted a blank future a clean slate the world at her feet and so much more so in turn I possessed her.
We came together as one and when we did she had no language no words to persuade me. It was something else something pure entirely no vile thought or ill intent so repulsive to my state of being yet so wonderful
it was what I wanted what I craved and I revelled in the high. I must have lost myself between the lines. She hated every second but I was blinded too blind to notice and there I was manipulative, controlling but somehow spiralling out of control. I lost everything I knew and to this day I do not understand
why do I feel an echo of a flutter somewhere within me seeing the two hands together his thoughtful eyes or the softness of his lips those are her wants her primal needs but now I crave them too. My entire existence is trembling and I hate it so immensely since it reminds me of being human
and the one thing I could never understand is their will to go on to carry the most convoluted conversations with themselves on the off chance that they will get their answer a true call from the void. After all, do they not deserve it? are their lives not a gift designed to fulfil a greater purpose?
Perhaps so but I do fear the humankind as the knowledge would surely break them. If they were certain that there is no meaning they would become us shapeless demons ghosts of their former selves.
We are not bound by the same mentality. I will carry on living reap the souls of those standing in my way one by one by one until there is nothing left
still, I am afraid to claim another life and to become one of them once again I am afraid since I now know too well their struggles, fears the ticking clock. Can I ever become one of them and not become human?
The twin poem to the hours and the second monologue I wrote for my poetry class.