By: The Vampire Sweets
Dripping, bleeding, curling, with anticipation, waiting wondering indifferent and weathered by time and relentless emotion. Not responsive or even Trying to be. Just a shell visible, and yet so empty in its way, it drifts in and out like faulty hearing or a badly reopened wound. So much blood is expected, and yet so little comes from that grotesque, intrusive scar. That mark of past pain. The unforgettable war and the silent, long enduring seasons that come and go so gracefully- all trying to tell a story gently but through a haunting, merciless reminder such petulant savagery such wild destruction so much that falls in through the sleep we seek. The dreams we make and the hearts we try to spare. I'm not happy here. How much do those words really bring to a mind that is unprepared for change? How much can those words heal and resolve in a place soiled thickly with old, dark fear stains, and deep scars and fresh scratches on faded hope and confidence.