forsakenthedawn

  I remember a white sorrow surrounding my body, and a heartless quiet draping its graceless elegance across my grief-filled eyes. I remember looking down at my feet, where crimson entangled around pale, ghostly flesh. I remember my thoughts racing through my despairing cries, with the minutes happily suffocating my throat. I remember imploring to someone forgotten prayers, while my memories slowly dissipated from my already decadent mind. I remember my arms swinging wildly in the open air, trying to make sense of the black I was thrust into. I remember my chest twisting, aching, the brokenness of the moonlight gradually weighing against my n

Within the confines of a cold, merciless prison, and amidst the dancing darkness, a lone figure huddles in the ruined corner of a claustrophobic cell. The lights below the edge of her window flickered across the shadows of her tired, dreary face. She could hear the sewage rumble in fleeting decadence, as the sludge desolates the once clear and beautiful air. The hideous substances would slip into her room quite frequently, with the black hell caressing the ground lovingly.  The walls were steadily eroding. The metal bars threatened to break under the weight of the cement. The cracks in the stone gave way to a stray, eerie ray, gleaming in it

In the distance of the shimmering embers, and in the cold, intertwining of the winter’s sullen blow, there stood a young man. The crimson seams tore apart his fine silhouette, and the darkness of his hair wrapped seductively around the red, gleaming tongues of the earth. His long, tender fingers toyed with his tattered, ruined clothes, as the night evoked the growing black. They endured, quite lovingly he might add, the fiery laurels in the mist. His pale skin smoothly reflected the excitement of the flames, as he bore the cover of shadows. He closes his dark, morose eyes, and breathes in the wondrous tendrils. He weaves the scent of th

How cruel heaven was, to distort its emotions so turbulently, so aggressively. The skies reflected the earth’s grotesque sinfulness, and no amount of decoration could ever hope to replace Gaia’s pathetic inferiority. Whether it be the bright, forlorn lights on the streets, or even the shimmering sights amidst the River Thames, the dirt will never touch the sky’s loveliness. For it was too mundane, too trivial, that it instead contented itself in playing the farce, endlessly waiting for an inevitable sign that its idol was watching, listening.  And yet, between the two colors, between those overbearing illusions for which no

A tiny, sheltered garden far off in the wood bore an unbearable burden which crashed down on the buds, forcing them to take the heavy sorrows of loneliness. The ash carried the withered plants away, the roots decadent in their heartless, cold earth. They seemed to cry helplessly, begging pathetically for life, for aid, for attention, for anything at all. But the trees were distracted, tuned to the melodious nature of sweet Gaia. Thus, there was quiet, and there was silence, all but for the humming sins of an obtuse, useless crone, who sat in the dirt of the garden.  She sat there smiling, particularly at nothing, with a dreamlike expression

The silence cried out devastatingly in a small, peculiar region of an old empty classroom, one decimated by its own, melancholic lust. That lust devoted itself to all sorts of foolish things, such as facading for a group of lonely desks, or crying out for the abandoned mannequins in the corner, or shouting out frustratedly at the large, grey windows, where the ominous, cold hearted clouds proved merciless toward the ruinous glass, or even laughing at the tiles on the walls, whose dried, crimson stains muddled the clear, quiet complexions of some unknown wish. Those wishes were carried out in the form of demands, demands that were messily scri

What exactly is "love" in our say? I don't think I understand. How can someone love someone without pain? How can someone love someone without sorrow? To be an unknowing angel. To be an innocent child, away from the cold vein of philosophy, And despair, And sadness, And loneliness, And darkness, Is a fool's gain.

In the lone shadows stood a boy gripping to the Pole of the lantern. White sorrow lazily fills to the round,, providing an onus to the past staring back at him. And so, with each new memory, the light within the lantern flickers, becoming more and more dim as the child fades to the background. One of these memories transforms softly into the form of a shelter deep within the wood of evergreen and oak. Candles burn from within, though the warmth was surprisingly cool. Perhaps the dark forbids trespassers from composing themselves into the chikd's domain. But he allows us to stay, to witness a lost happiness that was once his. As we look

  Possibly the zenith of the wolf's career would be the terrified expression of her victims before their dying memories come flashing before their eyes, from the zeitgeist times of youth to the nostalgic greetings from the wizened elders. Strange, how the wolf could see through their perspective with the use of their eyes, even though she makes every attempt not to, with her voraciousness calling her out, from the warm crimson flesh to hearing the siren song of the heart. Even the scent of human wafting through the air would provide her senses with delicious temptations and other engaging secrets.  Yes, that was what the wolf had looked for