The bats have left the bell tower
The victims have been bled
My failure does not shock me.
I had tried once again to reach out to another. My voice was all but stolen, I can only speak in hushed whispers and stolen glances. The inky darkness that consumed my coat intimidates despite my delicate frame.
I blame my eyes.
The silver-gray that blends them, mercury and rain clouds across the moon. I try to keep them hidden beneath my long lashes. I care not to share what I can see with the world. All the ghosts, former shells of horses, they all come to me. They caress my skin, whispers with cracked lips and flesh-less throats into my velvet ears. Their decayed breath fills my nostrils and taints my lungs. But still I try.
I can see them all the time but most linger in congested areas. They talk to me, some cry, some are jealous of my life. I use to talk to them...to try to help them and relieve their hurt but I failed at that too.
I find myself in the meadow, alone and winked out by the long stretch of skinny shadows. The sun was fat and heavy in the west, drunk on it's fill from the day of blue sky and clouds. My pewter eyes blink away the sleep before I slip into a silver mist to melt into the evening dew and fog of spring. I can take may forms -mist, shadows, a vision of death rot and decay- but I opt for less of the frightening. And so now, I drift over flora and fauna alike. I slip through mane, slink along cheeks, chilling the skin of all. The ghosts are solid when I am on their plateau. They can touch me, hurt me, consume me but I am stronger and I frighten them away with one sharp look.
It's the demons that do not spook.
When I am safely nestled against a thick clump of trees, I am equine again. My limbs form first and slowly the silver mist gathers to my body, shaping my thin legs to my barrel, my hair and finally my head. Lids fall over the shine of my eyes, blinking away the blurriness that sometimes accompanies my shifting. Not far from me is a figure...tall, intimidating, but he is all too familiar to me though we have never met. He smells of the beach, of my birthplace but I do not move but instead allow him to come to me. Was he death walking? Was he the sin keeper? I dare not ask. The slick black of my coat remains still as a winter pond, like fire forged obsidian stretched over bones and muscle.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Death has come for me.
I had tried once again to reach out to another. My voice was all but stolen, I can only speak in hushed whispers and stolen glances. The inky darkness that consumed my coat intimidates despite my delicate frame.
I blame my eyes.
The silver-gray that blends them, mercury and rain clouds across the moon. I try to keep them hidden beneath my long lashes. I care not to share what I can see with the world. All the ghosts, former shells of horses, they all come to me. They caress my skin, whispers with cracked lips and flesh-less throats into my velvet ears. Their decayed breath fills my nostrils and taints my lungs. But still I try.
I can see them all the time but most linger in congested areas. They talk to me, some cry, some are jealous of my life. I use to talk to them...to try to help them and relieve their hurt but I failed at that too.
I find myself in the meadow, alone and winked out by the long stretch of skinny shadows. The sun was fat and heavy in the west, drunk on it's fill from the day of blue sky and clouds. My pewter eyes blink away the sleep before I slip into a silver mist to melt into the evening dew and fog of spring. I can take may forms -mist, shadows, a vision of death rot and decay- but I opt for less of the frightening. And so now, I drift over flora and fauna alike. I slip through mane, slink along cheeks, chilling the skin of all. The ghosts are solid when I am on their plateau. They can touch me, hurt me, consume me but I am stronger and I frighten them away with one sharp look.
It's the demons that do not spook.
When I am safely nestled against a thick clump of trees, I am equine again. My limbs form first and slowly the silver mist gathers to my body, shaping my thin legs to my barrel, my hair and finally my head. Lids fall over the shine of my eyes, blinking away the blurriness that sometimes accompanies my shifting. Not far from me is a figure...tall, intimidating, but he is all too familiar to me though we have never met. He smells of the beach, of my birthplace but I do not move but instead allow him to come to me. Was he death walking? Was he the sin keeper? I dare not ask. The slick black of my coat remains still as a winter pond, like fire forged obsidian stretched over bones and muscle.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Death has come for me.
graveside
@[velis]