I've walked close to Heaven's gates, I've tasted the sweet air above, felt the soft cloud lull me to sleep. When you have been cradled in the soft grip of death, of life's forgotten mercy. You long for it, the soft clouds that wrap you up in cotton and keep you safe. Those trumpets, those dear golden harps. If only, if only I could hear them. Could hear their beautiful song that beckons me to them, to the end, to the final.But there is no final, and there is no end, at least not yet, not for me. The sky says that I am too young, the earth, tells me I'm too weak. And the wind, it whispers into my deafened lobes that I, I have something to do here. And I am meant to understand this? Stricken in the earthy loam of autumn's grasp. Cold, against the frostbitten winds of a promised winter. My ghostly pelt shivers, fine, against the chill. I feel far too old,and yet I am far from. I can feel the age creep in my bones, knitting together as one.
Every movement causes ache, every shift of my crown, to gaze at the birds above, hurts. And yet it shouldn't. three summers I have seen, three years of looking and staring, and now being allowed to hear the voices of the world, speak the tentative words upon my lips. Three summers, and yet it feels like three hundred.I see them, those delicate avian creatures. They sing, I am sure, but never, never have I heard their beautiful song. I try and imagine it, feel the tune through my thickened skull. And it hurts, it is a spear, driven into my very core. And it buries itself there, deeper and deeper with every aching thought of it. to feel useless, to feel a burden upon the world. I motion through the field, each fine limb knotting with the leaves.
The self-indulgent, loathing thought sits behind my eyes, like a burning blister. Hot, rampant as it takes to torrenting down my spine, every nodule releasing a sharp torrent of memory.My pace is slow, laboured, as I seem to crawl with weary limbs over the dying grass of the field. My form almost illuminated in the sunshine as it shines down upon me, picking out the creamy gold tones splashed across my pale for. The sun, is the only thing that has been ever present in my life, the only thing that has stuck by me. the sunlight. The warmth. It truly never gets to the cold, frozen depths of my heart. Never. My blue eyes lift up to watch as the silhouettes of the birds fly above, I can only imagine their sweet song. I could never mimic it either.
My songless mouth opens, wishing, hoping that one day I could release a song of my own. but the hope is fruitless.I've not know much, except the ringing, the tolling bell in my mind. The cursed sonless tongue of mine, that sticks against the roof of my mouth. The hope tries to bathe me in a blanket of reassurance. It will be different here, surely. Perhaps.. Perhaps it would be different now. Perhaps indeed.
elyvian
you don't remember me, but I remember you