02-25-2017, 11:21 AM
Every crevice;
Every crack;
Has come to know her careless tread.
Pangea is a terrible festering sore as far as a land can be, but she loves it all the same.
The breadth of her is open beneath a sky with a backbone of steel and cloud that threatens storms on a daily basis. Sinew welcomes the storms (even birthed a daughter during one!) with eagerness in her flat (a flatness they’ve all come to recognize in one another’s gazes) black eyes as she flicks them up to the sky then back down upon the raw breast of her home. She has done little for it besides give the gift-giver king two sons. Her contributions have been nothing to them but she never promised Pollock anything but her company (and her loins). She came here because of him, otherwise she was more than content to roam the meadow’s broad back or weave her way through the forest’s seeming endlessness.
But she is here.
And here is dull, like the earth beneath their feet that produces nothing for them.
(Sure, Pangea provides but it is in small measure and it is a wonder that none of them are frail and sick from her lack of provisions - none but her son Famine, and that is for reasons not of Pangea’s making or fault.)
For once in her life, Sinew is looking for something. That something might be someone one to break up the entropy that her existence has become. She might welcome conversation for once, but that is unlike her to crave the company that another can provide. The overo mare has seen quite a few of them grace Pangea with their foul and lusting company and yet, she has made no effort to join them.
(She lies, tells herself it is for the gift-giver king’s sake to become something of more use to him than a conduit for his progeny and his bouts of hunger, of which she could never sate because she did not fear him and she feared only one thing that came in her dreams, and only there.)
She drifts amongst the small dust devils that the wind stirs up.
Restless, like they are.
Waiting, like they are.
For something.
Every crack;
Has come to know her careless tread.
Pangea is a terrible festering sore as far as a land can be, but she loves it all the same.
The breadth of her is open beneath a sky with a backbone of steel and cloud that threatens storms on a daily basis. Sinew welcomes the storms (even birthed a daughter during one!) with eagerness in her flat (a flatness they’ve all come to recognize in one another’s gazes) black eyes as she flicks them up to the sky then back down upon the raw breast of her home. She has done little for it besides give the gift-giver king two sons. Her contributions have been nothing to them but she never promised Pollock anything but her company (and her loins). She came here because of him, otherwise she was more than content to roam the meadow’s broad back or weave her way through the forest’s seeming endlessness.
But she is here.
And here is dull, like the earth beneath their feet that produces nothing for them.
(Sure, Pangea provides but it is in small measure and it is a wonder that none of them are frail and sick from her lack of provisions - none but her son Famine, and that is for reasons not of Pangea’s making or fault.)
For once in her life, Sinew is looking for something. That something might be someone one to break up the entropy that her existence has become. She might welcome conversation for once, but that is unlike her to crave the company that another can provide. The overo mare has seen quite a few of them grace Pangea with their foul and lusting company and yet, she has made no effort to join them.
(She lies, tells herself it is for the gift-giver king’s sake to become something of more use to him than a conduit for his progeny and his bouts of hunger, of which she could never sate because she did not fear him and she feared only one thing that came in her dreams, and only there.)
She drifts amongst the small dust devils that the wind stirs up.
Restless, like they are.
Waiting, like they are.
For something.