Haplo (orangexplosion) wrote in writersunion,


I'd love to come to you, run to you, beg for you;
ten thousand miles I'd go, ten-ten thousand-
I would go if I could

You shadow still haunts me,
your spectre grieves me
That idealized image of what was, what was, what was

Seventy lined up, tried, fell, died;
fallen to the morass of one,
lost in the choking lands of the past
A day wrought with tension, built minute by minute on naugh but hesitation, it worked out as a testimation - a testimation of just what wa so wretched with this aggravation.


A glint in her eye, brighter than the light of ten-thousand suns, eclipsed her awualine face in a blinding bright-white light. It was all a man could do, but stare into her eyes; although infintely brilliant, the light was not blinding, but mesmerizing.


A furious torrent of red spewed forth from his mouth as he screamed in fury, enveloping her in it's flood. She hugged her knees and rocked back and forthe, the depth of his anger driving her down the spiral of madness.


The behooved man sat upon his rock, resting and slowly playing a wooden lute. The trees swayed with his rhythm, the beasts mated with his breakdowns, and the predator's killed with his crescendo's. He on his rock, turned and ceased his playing, and slept -- and the world went dark.


His great massive fingers stretched, extending far into the darkness, both giving and taking both life and creation. An invisible but tangible force guided him on his journey, an odyssey which he did not understand, but an odyssey he pursued relentlessly.


The two danced gracefully as they spun about the dark, although not quite pitch, floor. Reaching her hands to him as he proceeded to ebb and flow, the maiden did not move as she danced.


Ten thousand pinpricks, welling with white blood, shine brightly fom the otherwise black skin. They screamed in a silent agony; rabidly angry at their involuntary and unnatural existance, silently damning those with the pins.

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