10-10-2016, 11:38 PM
This place was home.
If home is a gravesite for secrets and old bones. If home is a haunted place, full of conniving old things and queer ghosts.
A kingdom made of tongues and spines.
(When he closes his eyes, he can see the gaudy twinkle of strange lights, hung side-by-side on strings ‒ green, dark blue, yellow, red. Those things that had given him chase, as every night met tiresome morning; the acrid smell of melted plastic and smoke. When at last his fall was done, he had awoken here, crowned in glory.
The chilling snap of bones and necklines; soft words left on the ground like dead embers, meant to be the last from their aching lips.)
If home is where the heart is, he had left many things hewn of love in this place. Gashes in pale, tall birches ‒ shorn by the headgear that now lay on the mountain side like the remnants of an old ram's skull. Teeth and skeletons (and nothing more). Bruises and memories ‒ his dear, little things. Planted like seeds in expectant soil that had turned to ash under his feet.
A deception.
She had soured this for him the day She had rent the world apart.
The trees (those he had so lovingly nourished) were wrought by Her hand. He realizes that, now. They bear Her mark – like an artist’s distinct brushstrokes – in every fallen needle and fruit.
The wasteland is nascent, still settling into the wreckage of its own carcass. Still fingering the tangles of its unholy makings. But at least it is His. As Pollock leaves the craggy, barren bastard-land, he cannot yet see what Carnage meant this be. But he had watched Beqanna fracture and turn scaled and dull. It was enough for him, the way it still creaks and groans under the weight of its own violent creation.
He can sympathize.
He comes like a king dispossessed of his throne – dry lips pulled tight and grim-set, bright wings held tense against his golden body. It is pre-dawn when he stops, first, at the holiest of sights. The first sanctum, where he had tried to pray for death but instead had witnessed a miracle. He must collect his things. Those that can be gathered ‒ not the lights, but the idea of them; not the bones, but the names they had spelled out beneath meat and horsehair; and this to, this blessed thing that felt like mealworms in his gut ‒ and move them.
Sow them into dust and pocked stone. Let them agonize in new earth, scorched and diseased, so that they may make a house a home.
If home is a gravesite for secrets and old bones. If home is a haunted place, full of conniving old things and queer ghosts.
A kingdom made of tongues and spines.
(When he closes his eyes, he can see the gaudy twinkle of strange lights, hung side-by-side on strings ‒ green, dark blue, yellow, red. Those things that had given him chase, as every night met tiresome morning; the acrid smell of melted plastic and smoke. When at last his fall was done, he had awoken here, crowned in glory.
The chilling snap of bones and necklines; soft words left on the ground like dead embers, meant to be the last from their aching lips.)
If home is where the heart is, he had left many things hewn of love in this place. Gashes in pale, tall birches ‒ shorn by the headgear that now lay on the mountain side like the remnants of an old ram's skull. Teeth and skeletons (and nothing more). Bruises and memories ‒ his dear, little things. Planted like seeds in expectant soil that had turned to ash under his feet.
A deception.
She had soured this for him the day She had rent the world apart.
The trees (those he had so lovingly nourished) were wrought by Her hand. He realizes that, now. They bear Her mark – like an artist’s distinct brushstrokes – in every fallen needle and fruit.
The wasteland is nascent, still settling into the wreckage of its own carcass. Still fingering the tangles of its unholy makings. But at least it is His. As Pollock leaves the craggy, barren bastard-land, he cannot yet see what Carnage meant this be. But he had watched Beqanna fracture and turn scaled and dull. It was enough for him, the way it still creaks and groans under the weight of its own violent creation.
He can sympathize.
He comes like a king dispossessed of his throne – dry lips pulled tight and grim-set, bright wings held tense against his golden body. It is pre-dawn when he stops, first, at the holiest of sights. The first sanctum, where he had tried to pray for death but instead had witnessed a miracle. He must collect his things. Those that can be gathered ‒ not the lights, but the idea of them; not the bones, but the names they had spelled out beneath meat and horsehair; and this to, this blessed thing that felt like mealworms in his gut ‒ and move them.
Sow them into dust and pocked stone. Let them agonize in new earth, scorched and diseased, so that they may make a house a home.
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)
