Posted by KALE. on March 15, 2008, 5:12 pm, in reply to "like the water flirts with dousing the flame ; kale"
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Beneath the newborn stars, the black beast stirs.
The night forgets to breathe.
They are light and shadow, star and the dark that defies them – she, white and gentle; he, black and ruthless and macabre. He is the monolith erected in quiet contempt for the gods, a feigned expression of temperance and fealty. He is the angel with raised wings, face upturned to the sky and knees bent for the launch – he is the choked breath of hopelessness when the angel realizes wings are nothing more than fashion, nothing more than statement, and the skies were not built for his taking. (Oh, and he had flown once – he had shot for the moon and he had missed – he had fallen past the stars and he had bled, oh, he had bled.) And she – she is a quiet and seldom-known humility, a bustling perseverance attained only by the inexplicably kind. The wind rustles with dislike: they are unworthy of each other.
The beast is unyielding despite her attempted forays and quiet, solemn defeats – (death will not still the mind) – he matches each burst of excitement and curiosity with a new wave of apathy. He is unsurprised by her failure; the very elements demanded it of her. Nonetheless he pushes. The monolith will require movement and life even when it itself does not live – he is a testament to blasphemy and sin, the solidification of a Terrible Fate; his dark eyes are the reason why she should learn. His broken smile is the reason why she should live.
“Soon,” he assures her in a quiet baritone; “your fire grows.”
A pause and the night takes a breath – his stillness ensures that the shadows will not grow. He watches her with a quiet eye and his stare is unyielding. “Strike us like matches, ‘cause everyone deserves the flames…”
We only do it for the scars and stories – not the fame.
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