23rd May....
And so I sit a silver thorn in a crimson world...
I watch the battles rage wildly around me...missing me, ignoring me. A side step, a shift in reality maybe...It could mean nothing...Unless you are the thorn.
No. That's not quite right.
It started...Hmmmm..when was that day? As time has passed it has faded more and more into antiquity becoming as frail as the tulle on an old gown.
I seem to remember it was harmless enough at the time. In fact, I find that it did not really amount to anything too much. One Lord says nay, the other of equal standing yeah. They circle one another and the facts like two bantum roosters in the lower yard, scratching and pecking until unable to find a true weakness, attack anyway out of frustration, come will or nill the death and destruction it will cause. One always dies and the other becomes so crippled by it's wounds that it is out to death there after.
and then......
And then the chaos.
Father said "A cure for strife can always be achieved for all men are truely good inside."I say father was a fool. All men are dark and evil, the light only a thin barrier of what can lurk behind closed doors and hooded eyes.
I look now from these writings and cast my jaded eyes out the stone casement to the yard far below. How scraggly the men now standing there. Men? No, not even that now. Mere boys and the elderly guard the gates. The last stand against the nightmare riding the early dawn.
A silver thorn I said.
Trapped in a tower as in days of lore, faded by sorrow as any good heroin will be, locked away from the crimson advance that passes in a parade of funerals and soliloquies. Though this time, the door is unlocked. All too busy for a last stand to check me....
This one, final time in this world of infinity, I will stop the axis and join the throng, there to stand or die in the trying.
A thorn is a funny thing. Never truly noticed until it pricks the thumb from under a tender petal, welling blood at the puncture mark and causing suprise from the wounded.
A silver thorn.....indeed.
(Alana MacTharan 4th heir to the city-state Mandertha)
And so I sit a silver thorn in a crimson world...
I watch the battles rage wildly around me...missing me, ignoring me. A side step, a shift in reality maybe...It could mean nothing...Unless you are the thorn.
No. That's not quite right.
It started...Hmmmm..when was that day? As time has passed it has faded more and more into antiquity becoming as frail as the tulle on an old gown.
I seem to remember it was harmless enough at the time. In fact, I find that it did not really amount to anything too much. One Lord says nay, the other of equal standing yeah. They circle one another and the facts like two bantum roosters in the lower yard, scratching and pecking until unable to find a true weakness, attack anyway out of frustration, come will or nill the death and destruction it will cause. One always dies and the other becomes so crippled by it's wounds that it is out to death there after.
and then......
And then the chaos.
Father said "A cure for strife can always be achieved for all men are truely good inside."I say father was a fool. All men are dark and evil, the light only a thin barrier of what can lurk behind closed doors and hooded eyes.
I look now from these writings and cast my jaded eyes out the stone casement to the yard far below. How scraggly the men now standing there. Men? No, not even that now. Mere boys and the elderly guard the gates. The last stand against the nightmare riding the early dawn.
A silver thorn I said.
Trapped in a tower as in days of lore, faded by sorrow as any good heroin will be, locked away from the crimson advance that passes in a parade of funerals and soliloquies. Though this time, the door is unlocked. All too busy for a last stand to check me....
This one, final time in this world of infinity, I will stop the axis and join the throng, there to stand or die in the trying.
A thorn is a funny thing. Never truly noticed until it pricks the thumb from under a tender petal, welling blood at the puncture mark and causing suprise from the wounded.
A silver thorn.....indeed.
(Alana MacTharan 4th heir to the city-state Mandertha)