To fall or not to fall.
When you feel like falling,
but aren’t sure where to land.
The freedom to do what you want,
but consequence’s uncertainty claims you like chains claim a lion.
You can taste it at the tongue’s tip,
where it dances, teasing the tastebuds of temptation.
then there’s doubt.
or you might.
Do you do it, do you take the leap of faith?
It could be the opportunity of a lifetime,
or your greatest downfall.
To fall or not to fall..
I’ll give you a push.
All But a Nightmare...
Hush little baby, don't you cry..
Momma's gonna sing you a lullaby..
A surreal melody plagues, echoing with subtly nefarious notes quaking sanity at its roots. It stretches out, far and wide, coating a barren, old bedroom with a serpentine tongue. Small hands attempt to block the resonance, by covering small ears. The little girl, who the melody haunts, curls up on her little bed, swaying and muttering, praying that it stops. A tiny droplet of water drips down from shut eyes, as they squeeze with all their tiny might. All her attempts prove fruitless; nothing stops the dirge of desolation and it's lover, darkness, from blanketing the girl and room, from leaky roof to creaky floor.
Hush little baby..
Don't say a word..
A dance of duos is interrupted, when a splintered door swings open, slamming against a crackled wall. Jolting, the little girl removes her little hands, and stares at the gaping space between her room and another. At the threshold, a grisly woman of soot and embers stands, its head cocked. At the scalp, shreds of hair remain. From there the creature is but blisters and scorched flesh, naked and singed to a crisp in areas. Oozing black and red, she stares at the small girl, who trembles atop her small bed. The molten woman continues to sing the same few notes, her deranged tone leaking like acid. Her touch does the same, when willowy digits stroke the tiny cheeks of the girl. In the wake of grazing nails, hellish flames ignite, burning tender flesh as the little girl shrieks.
Momma's gonna make you just like her..
The second the little girl tries to jerk away, the scolding palm of the mother presses to her throat in a vice grip. Pretty hazel eyes meet the wicked gaze of perdition. Still, or even more so, rather, droplet after droplet of liquid misery streams down small eyes, making the mother's wrist sizzle and crackle. Her hand wasn't the only one to grab the little girl though. Oh no, many more joined hers. They snaked from underneath the bed, reaching out with lithe arms to drag their rugged nails along her arms and legs. How hard or long she screamed, it mattered not to them. The Devil's hands wouldn't stop until her tiny body was ravaged and scarred, burned to its depths with a blaze unlike any other. And as if that weren't enough, the chthonic heat suffocated tiny lungs to the point of bloody coughs and wheezing.
Look what you did! You did this! YOU DID THIS.
A masculine voice disrupts that of the mother, who wavers, along with the many hands. With a thunderous clap, she and the clawing appendages disappear. But, all is not well. The source of the clap came from a rough palm, when it collided with a soft cheek. The little girl jolted again, but sideways, the force of the smack nearly sending her flying off her little bed. Rivers pour now, from hazelnut eyes, and she hiccups. Unmarred by fire and smoke, she feels the cherry red mark burning beneath her tiny palm. With a sniffle, while nursing the bruising cheek, watery eyes peer up at a hulking figure, whose ears almost literally release puffy smoke. Her small lips part, but the only sound allowed is a yelp, when another swing is made and delivered to her other cheek. This time she goes down, landing on creaky planks with a thud. Whimpering now, she can hear her mother's voice again, ringing loudly in her ears.
Hush little baby..
Don't you cry..
Tiny nails claw at her own tiny ears, like it would stop the tormenting song. It didn't of course, and just as her ears begun to bleed another monstrous attack met her; a massive hand snagged her scalp by its hair, yanked her up viciously and threw her on the small bed. She bounced once, before that same hand pinned her throat down. Squirming under the massive weight, she tried to scream again, but did not prevail. Her tiny legs kicked, her tiny hips bucked, but he wouldn't release. He shouted instead, calling her filthy names and accusing her of unlikely faults.
Daddy doesn't love you..
With a howl the man vanished. One would assume the little girl's relieved finally, but they're wrong. The only reason he disappeared, is because he was consumed, by infernal flames. They returned with vengeance, swallowing the desolate room and swelling until nothing was untouched by the Devil's heat. It choked her more than any of the hands had, burning her tongue and throat, until they blistered and peeled away, layer by layer. Her skin did the same, bearing bone in various spots. Where skeletal matter peeked black rage scorched. All else burned and melted, while silent screams were held within her head, unable to break the surface of singed lips. Her world went dark for a single second.
Neither do I..
One last whimper makes its way from a little throat, to little lips, and the girl gasps. Jolting once more, pretty hazel eyes peer from a closed door, to the creaky floor, and up at a leaky roof. Breathing rather heavily, her small chest heaves small heaves, and she curls up once more. A single droplet of water drips from her closing eyes, and she exhales. It was all but a nightmare, and she relaxes at the soothing thought. That is, until a splintered door swings open, slamming against a crackled wall. Jolting, the little girl removes her little hands, and stares at the gaping space between her room and another. At the threshold, a grisly man stands, the neck of a bottle in hand.
"You did this."
Of demons, mites and maggots.
To have the world shut off from you, limitations chained to you, rules and norms in place like iron bars.
How maddening, to be stripped of everything, left without anything, always desiring something.
The song of a caged canary does naught, the howl of a lone wolf only echoes, the simple chirp of a chickadee becomes lost.
Dragging rusted metal against filth and grime, hinges give a squealing whimper.
Scored and sore, joints creak as if ready to snap, worn and withered bone crackles and the cry of a banshee trembles Ruby lips.
Utterly alone in a realm of black, an agonizing lament is like white noise, driving sanity to the brink in a haunting requiem.
Slowly it fades, becoming a ghost of the past. A ghost of the past.. A phantom, of what was, of what used to be. A spirit of mistakes, choices, of memories.
Oh god, the memories. They're the mites and maggots. They eat away, devouring, draining like leeches. But why, why. Why are they the bane, the reason.
The desire to squash them, to slam her fist into them. But the chains.. These bars, all this filth. Nothing stops the tears that stream like a broken faucet. Powerless, they keep eating away.
They keep going, squirming, like damned thoughts. They're the bane of her, they're the devil. Around and around they go,
Interchanging, flowing from one another.
Obsession is obsession in itself, over thoughts and the thoughts of thoughts. Demons, that's what they are. Her demons. No, yes.
They go, flowing, cycling around and around, like an unstoppable force. It's an obsession,
over demons. Demons upon demons, interchanging and flowing from one another.
They won't stop, won't leave her alone, won't hush. Silence is actuality but chaos is reality. It's her reality, our reality.
Our? No, just her. But who is she. Is she we, you, me or her. But who is her. The demons? The mites and maggots? No.. That can't be.
Ah, there it is. The rage of hate, the scorch of doubt the branding of self reflection. You'd think it'd make the mites and maggots go away, burn the demons. But they're only amplified.
Is this how it is, how it will always be, forevermore, everlasting beyond mortal years? Is this the damnation that is rightfully deserved? No, it's all the self reflection. Not hers, his.
He did this, he caused this. He and the others locked her away, left her to rot here. She doesn't think there's an escape.. One can't be found through a mess of demons and mites.
Or so she thinks. Those damned thoughts, her demons. They're the cuffs, the rope, the barrel. Each tear is a click, as the demons revolve, and boom, a wail wrenches free. It's not him, it's her. A prisoner of herself, bound by fear and pain, rusted chains clank, painting orange upon reddened wrists and ankles.
Head bowed, body slack, her only desire now is the end.
I love you in and out of time,
In and past my prime.
Through the thickness.
When things are thin,
We're thicker than skin.
Iron in might,
For you I'd fight.
Riches and wealth are naught,
Gold isn't what ties the knot.
More than a dream,
You're a wish come true.
In the grand scheme,
Not once will I say "Adieu"
But I'll say "I do."
Because you're my heart,
Have been from the start.
I can't promise to be perfect,
Or that there won't be conflict.
But I solemnly swear to try,
Until I die.
I love you in and out of time,
And prove so,
With this heartfelt rhyme.
Once upon a dream..
Once upon a dream,
I thought I could touch it,
I didn't think it was a scheme.
What I lacked was wit,
Or so it would seem.
Just as my fingers grazed just a bit,
My dream split at its seams.
Unraveling in a spiraling fit,
Hope no longer beams.
With deceit writing my defeat,
Ignorance and vice paint in streams.
Now it's foregone,
Leaving me forlorn,
In this pit of scorn.
Once upon a dream,
One candy colored with cotton and cream,
With nothing but bliss,
I never expected this,
This hellish abyss.
The irrefutable truth.
We all bleed the same,
Whether we have dirt or fame.
The complexion of our pigments,
Only adds to the variety of segments.
Individually our own,
But together unity is shown.
We may differ mentally,
But we serve a common purpose fundamentally.
I'm not you, you're not me,
They're not me, nor you too.
Beneath it all though,
Where crimson has a steady flow,
We're the same.
Not because of our religion, politics or name.
Because of what lies within,
The definition of a human.
What matters not is being a man or woman,
You could be a saint or madman.
It's a simple truth,
We all bleed the same.
Hear all evils, do no good.
The walls have ears,
As well as eyes.
They've heard every one of my tears,
Every cry birthed from fears.
They've become subjected to mumbles and rumbles,
Caused by inner turmoils or tumbles.
They know the heart's wishes,
Every time I wail,
Longing for him to swim with the fishes.
They know of the struggles and plight,
Of all the times there was a fight or fright.
All knowing, yet silent,
And never violent.
The walls watch and listen,
With no sympathetic cognition.
When alone, with just those four walls,
They give nothing but blank stares,
Through all my disrepair and downfalls.
Hearing all evils, but doing no good,
Ever since my childhood.
One resonating heart beat after another, the thud of vitality made ripples in the composure of silence, making it shudder at the tender vibrations. In sync to a tepid rhythm, the curtains to a voltaic soul of platinum and diamond flutters. Betwixt the motions of a serene heart and luxurious lashes, time slows to a gentle crawl. It never stops, but it seems to near the point of nonexistence. The steady beat of an internal organ thumps within prominence upon the cusp of each leisure second, and echoes throughout a calm atmosphere quietly. What does stop, is the rise and fall of curtains when they land peacefully, shutting the outside world from the lustrous view of platinum and diamond.
The breathes that are birthed from the adagio of life's eternal pulse assert the same sedated nature, as they slip from petite nostrils. Surrounding the phenomena of time's placid becoming, is a landscape of candy colored heavens and mimicking waters. One of which is an aquamarine sea where opal cotton candy swims freely, and the other twinkles like a midsummer night's stars in the midst of everlasting ultramarine. The only other resonance to clash with silence, was the lulling whisper of caressing winds, which streamed as breezes, enveloping everything with an amorous embrace, and kissing porcelain pores with soothing pecks.
As blissful as it all seemed, its time came to an end when the owner of scintillating irises revealed such beauty to the outside world once more. The only one who could ever bear the weight of Platinum and Diamond, is Viktoriya Winter. The two were more than words, objects or colors. They represented everything she was, and is. She bore that weight upon her shoulders, and within her depths. Even as she relaxed, and now stands, it's both a blessing and curse, heavy yet exhilarating.
With yet another exhale, life breathes, expelling itself out into the appendages of a breeze's lullaby. Her own appendages lift, shoulders rotating and slender arms raising above a head of iridescent snow. The pristine, frosted white two piece suit she's clad with shifts just the slightest as she stretches. Naked soles, despite hardly having shoes covering them, are soft, and grace a rugged, earthy cliff with graceful steps. Said steps carry the opalescent woman to the ledge, where the curtains to exquisite eyes shut once more, the thudding of a serene heart halts upon an inhale, and she prepares for the greatest dive performed yet..
Problematic as it is,
Rebarbative as it seems,
Odious and obnoxious in every way,
Star-crossed rather than stupendous,
Eventually everyone finds themselves loathing it.
Prompt challenge given by a friend:
You are a gardener that has been given the opportunity to attend a meeting with the senator of your state to address the farming and vegetation situation. The personal assistant of the senator feeds him lies and malicious information to save him money, all the while diminishing your own profit due to the fact that they intend to harm the farms. You are asked to give your viewpoint on the situation and your concerns.
The tick and tock of a clock resonates in tempo with the click and clack of black stilettos. While the intangible phenomena of counted, limited and recorded numbers envelopes a tense atmosphere, the righteous physique of a brilliant woman graces a white home with her avant-garde attitude.
It's the moment she, Madam De Louviere, crosses the threshold between heavenly nature and a corrupt building. Almost instantly her nose crinckles, as porcelain features cringe at the subtle stench of tainted power. It's not necessarily something she smells with her defined olfactory's prowess, but with a skill entirely foreign to reality. She can feel it, like a weight bearing down on the American establishment, slowly crippling it, crushing it within. She wheezed for a moment, taking a deep breath in to calm her nerves, before continuing forth, into the bowls of the tainted faculty. It'd take more than a little corruption to steer her away from her duty. It was no secret the government held corruption within it's womb, birthing it every now and then. It had many wombs, apart from the mother, the grandest capital sitting along Pennsylvania avenue. And it was them, after all, who invited her here, to speak her thoughts. Not one to be rude or to miss an opportunity, she obliged, and now here she stands, with a suited fellow at her side, guiding her to the classy office of the Senator. He's not the president she hoped to someday speak with, but this would do, for now.
"Sir, Madam De Louviere is here."
The door to the Senators office was closed of course, to keep secrets at bay. When the young man escorting the Madam rasped on the door and made his announcement, a voice from beyond gave permission to let her through. So he did, by opening the door and stepping aside for her. With a gracious nod she breezed past him, and into the room of no light, save for what came through imperial windows. Which, needless to say, it provided enough. Standing by a rather large mahogany desk was a woman, dressed in black of course, similar to the cocktail dress Madam De Louviere wore, but hers was a pant suit. Straight ahead, on the other side of the desk, and at the woman's side was a man, the Senator.
"Please, Madam, have a seat. I promise they're comfortable. "
The Senator spoke with a smile and gentle wave. Madame nodded to him as well, with a polite smile, before her hazel-green eyes drifted from him to the blonde beside him. The woman, his assistant the Madame presumed, nearly glared at her, in an attempt to dishearten or intimidate. Madame De Louviere is no fool, and no coward, that much is true. So she simply ignored the nasty woman, who, she suspected, was the root of this domains corruption.
"Monsieur, with all due respect, I would rather remain afoot. I thank you though, for your generous offer."
Her lilting, beautifully accented melody flowed from ruby red lips effortlessly. A slight bow at a curved waist was given, and the Senator hardly blushed at the gesture. He did, of course, let her remain standing. He cleared his throat, tapped a wooden area of the desk before him, and dove head first into the reason why she's here.
"Our agriculture is failing, horribly. We can't manage to uphold a single one it seems. Sustaining them is a bigger challenge than expected, and I fear the farms will diminish out of existence altogether. Word, on the grapevine so to speak, has it that you're the one to speak with on a matter such as this. Please, your help, guidence or advice is needed in this crucial situation."
When the Senator finishes speaking, earthy irises spot the eye roll of the blonde, thereafter addressing the Senator with the thoughtful tilt of the head. Her attention flicked back to his, and watched the genuine woe flood his chocolate eyes. Sighing, the Madame spoke henceforth with a soft, wise and luring tone.
"In order for something to bloom it needs good, nurtured soil. That's the first rule in farming and gardening. Without healthy soil, fresh water and pure light, life cannot burst and thrive, or survive long enough to reach full bloom."
The Senator appeared even sadder, with his hands moving as he spoke in defense.
"Yes, but we had that. I requested the best soil and water the state could afford, Madame. Yet our farms still fail."
Tsking, Madame De Louviere shook her head once.
"Monsieur, I was speaking in regards to the concept itself. It's lovely, and has incredible potential, but it cannot live if it's not properly grounded, fed and nourished. It takes more than an idea or words to make an idea or dream flourish. You know the saying, if you want things done right do them yourself, oui?"
Upon the last sentence lavish irises drifted back to the assistant, who was glaring blazing holes into the Madame by now. Calm and collected, the Madame's gaze met hers in silence. The Senator's glanced upwards and sideways to his assistant with furrowed brows. He had, after all, left her in charge of the farms.
"The farms were breeding killer insects so I've taken care of them."
A lie she told the Senator over and over, before the farms were even made. She didn't want them to exist, because all she saw was the loss of money in purchasing materials and land. The Senator frowned and turned his gaze back to the Madame, who was already speaking again.
"There were no killer bugs. This state has never had a problem with that kind of breeding, that's why it's the perfect one for farming communities. And even if there were bugs, there are safe pesticides you could have used, so that the plants remained healthy and uncontaminated. No, the problem here isn't rooted in the earth. It's rooted in your operations, Monsieur. Very deeply rooted."
Looking at him now, subliminally demanding his entire focus, her voice softened, as she finally sat across from him, her eye level matching his for a solid connection.
"The operation of your concept is diseased, Monsieur. I could tell the moment I heard the farms were dying. This state already had healthy soil. Tis why I live here. I don't know if bad soil or water was brought in, or both, but your farms are perishing at the hands of someone under this roof, within this room. You've been fed lies, Monsieur. Lies that will sooner or later cause famine, and then real, killer disease."
Madame De Louviere stood upon saying the last two words. Entirely solemn, with yet another sigh, she turned away from both. The assistant attempted to speak but the Madame started instead.
"My advice to you, Monsieur, is cleanse what has been tainted. Your vision is pure and bright, but those carrying out your wishes are not. Take matters into your own hand, and I promise you, all will be well."
Those were the last words Madame De Louviere spake, before leaving the house and returning to her own. A week passed, the paper came and she received news of a new Senator 's assistant, and the new blueprints for a farming community. She saw him again, while helping with the second farming community, where citizens were welcome to aid in the agriculture. It was part of his plans, to get folks interactive with the farms. She was proud of him, and he grew to absolutely adore her.