Tales of Dawn

Burgundy Rooted Agony

Hey guys! This chapter is long over due. There will not be an analysis for chapter 18. If you have any comments or theories you would like to share feel free to comment!

This was supposed to be posted in August but I couldn't find it within myself to finish it because I couldn't find the right words to explain this chapter.

I didn't feel very good last night and some parts of me today still has that icky tar feeling. Then I remembered this chapter and everything cleared.

It was Death, for I stood up,

And all the Dead, lie down-

The grim reaper stood still in his muted chambers made of charcoal marble. Crimson eyes blinked for every flicker of the ember flame that wisped  with a whip of silk smoke cackling in the air. It pulsed with a fiery disposition for a second, then bundled in on itself in a delicate sphere. A tiny heartbeat. The only heart beat. 

Were there more flames then that one? He doesn't remember. All he saw was that one flare in the creeping darkness.

It was not Night, for all the Bells

Put out their Tongues, for Noon.

The curtains were heavy and thick with velvet. It drowned out the brilliance of light and the foreboding darkness all together. The clock mounted on the wall ticked, a nightly cricket that boomed in Death's ears. It swayed to the heartbeat of the flame, making his irises palpitate. What was the use for it anyway? He knew what time it was, he always knew what time it was.

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh

I felt Siroccos crawl-

The ichor that ran through his body simmered and boiled. He felt his body harden, a exoskeleton of dark marmoreal with the cool flesh of a corpse. His lungs are filled with the tar of the night, for it breathed its caliginous charades. It made his head twirl like a merry-go-round, with flashing lights that blinded rubies.

Nor Fire- for just my Marble feet

Could keep a chancel, cool-

And then he was on the ground, wallowing in the algid alabaster. It felt like his ribcage, lined with sliver and shivers, was compressing- caging his heart. It was quiet, except the crickets in the clock and the hurried breathes of a monster in a man's body. It's inky claws grasped onto his ribs like love handles and clenched it's spindly fingers hard. The flame flickered and then sent a wisp of smoke into an inhale of the god. His senses filled with smoldering wood and iron. What a familiar scent.

And yet, it tasted like them all,

The Figures I have seen

Sweat beaded on the line in the tan sand of his head, where the sea of ebony strands lapped and lulled onto the scrunched skin. Thick black mane quivered with hidden quills, ready to dislodge whenever contact deems. His vision tunneled, a kaleidoscope of black, orange, and gray. Dancing in ribbons across the ceiling they were, their performance so vibrant, that the curtains needed to be drawn early during their show.

Set orderly, for Burial,

Reminded me, of mine-

His tongue had long been dry with the absence of any real emotion. The bittersweet taste of life has become washed out, numb. And then his head has empty yet filled. Which one was it? Which one was better? It didn't matter. Not now, not ever.