Contradictory as it was, the nature of the thing was beautiful and terrible, an angel against night so dark it eagerly consumed all light and life and laughter. Stars swipping by, cracking glass domes with their brilliance and effervescence and sheer radiance. Mountainous laughter, thunderstorms and uproarious enthusiasm.
Hidden, trembling, the brown leaf gripping tightly to the thin branch, its lack of supple flexibility causing tremors of fear to thread its veins, squeezing its eyes shut against the breeze. The tendril of gold, weaving around and to and from your fingertips. Creation and light - knowledge and love.
It was life.
A being, unique and solitary, pressing itself amidst the deck of cards, one too many but fitting in forcibly. There were no cards, however - a deck of leaves and grass and bark and sheets of metal, forming an abstract cluster of elements and planetary creation. Each wondrously oblivious to the other, focused so intently on themselves that they believed everyone else to be perfect, soldier-like, uniform.
Inhale the thick, sweet scent of blooming flowers, filling the heavy air with aromas of nectar and rain. Exhale emotion, relief and bitterness and relaxation and annoyance, an expression, confusing and defined. Rest.
Flying, soaring, swooping, the undercut of muscle beneath the soul, threatening to dismember one from the depths of their bodies. Swaying from side to side, mind rocking inwardly, rumbling and thrumming and beating with sentience. Manufactured beings who only know wanderlust, intense and unrivaled and forever unquenchable.
It
was
life.
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
