11-20-2015, 11:22 AM
a colorless existence
She left the Gates without a second glance. Trotting away from the calls and cries of a little silvered mare. That woman, her Mother, was so emotional, throwing herself to her knees with sobs. Since then Bly had taken shelter in the Meadow, somewhere no one knew her, somewhere no one cried or called out for her. Why would they?
She settles under an apple tree, looking languidly out into the open. Groups of horses dotted the horizon and even some stood alone, just as she did. The fall air forms circles of current around her neck and carriage, and though she can not see the changing of the leaves, she imagines it has begun. Her world is an endless sea of grays, blacks, and whites. Slowly, her silvered coat blooms into a rich plum purple. Her white blanket exchanges its drab hue for mustard, and her hair slowly burns into orange. Perhaps it is because she was thinking so hard about the change of the seasons, maybe it is just coincidence. Either way, her eyes fail her, and she would never see the true beauty she was.
Beautiful yes, if one could look past the shining scar across her face. The eye and snowflake folding its way from one side, over her snout, and bending to the opposite jaw. She flicks her tail in annoyance, the last of summer's flies still buzzing about her flanks. She greets no one, though some do acknowledge her as they pass. She blinks back at them in indifference, simply staring until they move along. Some will shrug and continue on their path, some will curse to deaf ears. She hears them plenty, but she does not rise to their bait, because she simply does not care. She doesn't really care about anything anymore.
A leaf flutters to the ground, landing at her feet, and she dips her head to look at it. It's a dark grey, and not yet brittle- bending when she places her weight on it. She snorts, sending it flopping a few inches away, there it blends with the color of the grass it crowns.
She settles under an apple tree, looking languidly out into the open. Groups of horses dotted the horizon and even some stood alone, just as she did. The fall air forms circles of current around her neck and carriage, and though she can not see the changing of the leaves, she imagines it has begun. Her world is an endless sea of grays, blacks, and whites. Slowly, her silvered coat blooms into a rich plum purple. Her white blanket exchanges its drab hue for mustard, and her hair slowly burns into orange. Perhaps it is because she was thinking so hard about the change of the seasons, maybe it is just coincidence. Either way, her eyes fail her, and she would never see the true beauty she was.
Beautiful yes, if one could look past the shining scar across her face. The eye and snowflake folding its way from one side, over her snout, and bending to the opposite jaw. She flicks her tail in annoyance, the last of summer's flies still buzzing about her flanks. She greets no one, though some do acknowledge her as they pass. She blinks back at them in indifference, simply staring until they move along. Some will shrug and continue on their path, some will curse to deaf ears. She hears them plenty, but she does not rise to their bait, because she simply does not care. She doesn't really care about anything anymore.
A leaf flutters to the ground, landing at her feet, and she dips her head to look at it. It's a dark grey, and not yet brittle- bending when she places her weight on it. She snorts, sending it flopping a few inches away, there it blends with the color of the grass it crowns.
Bly
never tasting life's delerium