11-14-2016, 12:31 PM
The bats have left the bell tower
The victims have been bled
When I was a ghost girl, a quiet girl, an invisible girl, I could see the world more clearly. The vibrations of daily life do not distract me or persuade me into the loving embrace of existence. I like being able to peep through my spyglass into the lives of these lost and forgotten souls and see the ugliness that lies beneath.
I have noticed that I have missed the constant chatter of undead in my ears. My world is too quiet in this cage of flesh and bone. I do not miss the way my silver eyes can see their rotting flesh and missing jaws with wagging tongues but the world seems so much lonelier even without the occupancy of purgatorial beings.
His voice catches me off guard as I have been drifting in between worlds again. His voice is sharp glass pressing into the tenderness of my ears. It's splinters can not be ignored as it penetrates my aura. Silver eyes look from beneath the multicolored forelock, my eyes rotate curiously in their sockets till they fall on his liquid mercury coat. I can see his lips parting to further fill the air around us with pieced together syllables.
His question disturbs me.
"You do." I speak candidly as I stare. I do not necessarily mean 'you' in the sense of 'you' but horses...the living frighten me with their sharp tongues and shifting eyes. With the dead, I know their desires.
They hunger.
They hunger for revenge, for love, for peace. Their unrelenting hunger is easy to read in the depths of maggot ridden eye sockets, in the crushed bone fragmented legs, the way their cries wail from ripped and torn ragged chest holes. But the living are much more tricky. They plot and connive.
They are unpredictable.
I have noticed that I have missed the constant chatter of undead in my ears. My world is too quiet in this cage of flesh and bone. I do not miss the way my silver eyes can see their rotting flesh and missing jaws with wagging tongues but the world seems so much lonelier even without the occupancy of purgatorial beings.
His voice catches me off guard as I have been drifting in between worlds again. His voice is sharp glass pressing into the tenderness of my ears. It's splinters can not be ignored as it penetrates my aura. Silver eyes look from beneath the multicolored forelock, my eyes rotate curiously in their sockets till they fall on his liquid mercury coat. I can see his lips parting to further fill the air around us with pieced together syllables.
His question disturbs me.
"You do." I speak candidly as I stare. I do not necessarily mean 'you' in the sense of 'you' but horses...the living frighten me with their sharp tongues and shifting eyes. With the dead, I know their desires.
They hunger.
They hunger for revenge, for love, for peace. Their unrelenting hunger is easy to read in the depths of maggot ridden eye sockets, in the crushed bone fragmented legs, the way their cries wail from ripped and torn ragged chest holes. But the living are much more tricky. They plot and connive.
They are unpredictable.
graveside