Ten Swords.
By: Reveroph
The cremation of the clouds above burn, burn to the slow tune of a string gently caressed by the hair of the finest steed.
The ground is quaking, spinning out of control, and I think that the world might never stop this wayward circumference, and go on forever seeking the infinite rule of destiny. In this never-ending daze, this dizziness of living, plants adapt to the outward gravity along the tree’s equator. Hold on for dear life, child, for this will be a grand tug.
Lands burning to the side, the smoke rising up to create the new sky that I had always willed to paint. To see such a magnificence is a fair privilege, but a dagger to the heart would have the same ill effect. To lie back on this glassy dust, and think that a plastic woman once lied ten feet from where I do, creating the lie that is cancerous beauty. That was centuries before the storm erupted into the devilish fiend it is at this moment in anti-time. Now all that exists is eroding bone, the skull now emaciated by the smoldering sky and the homicidal wind.
I watch as the dust swirls around, creating small galaxies, forcing the gravity to come to them, and compressing the dense matter into light, fusing all that exists into a floating mass that’s splendor is immeasurable. These dust hurricanes come together, and fight to the death. A glorious duel, eight men clashing steel rapiers, the sparks becoming the light I use to see this darkened world. When the weaker man is defeated, the more luminous eats him, taking in his glory and everything that existed within him. A withered source; now dissipated in the wind, the gravity becoming greater as the man becomes exceedingly gluttonous.
A horrible sin will stab one in the back, eight swords screaming all around, cutting the traitorous wind like water, until one hits the mark; the heart that was once meant to love, but never found the chance. The radiance in this is that in spite of the torn flesh and soul, out of eight swords seeking to destroy and kill, the physics keep the properties in check, and only one hits a harmful mark.
Deadly sins call upon ten swords, and the evils that cloud the fluorescence within are stricken with not one but every sword, not one inch of silver failing to find its heart, and dig into the heartless b*****d who spoke out against the rights to live.
Bottoming out, this trouble finds its downward way into the throat of souls, stalking the annual pressures of the mind and ripping them out. This is not the card I drew. I drew one of magic and bliss. Why am I in such a place waiting for the wrongs to correct the rights? Such a question is simple and thick. The answer is even more simple: because I can create it.
To take seven destinies, and dismiss them as something I don’t wish to see at this moment, and to embrace another for its beauty in tenebrous. Scarless sands filter between my fingers, and fall into oblivion. Compress into nothing, destroy something, create nonexistent matter. Jump into gravity, and fall into the sky.
Snap out of it. Lay your hand upon your chest. Does your heart discontinue to beat? It goes on forever, and beats harder and faster when you’re in love. Do you feel the air pressure yet? Let me be the foundation of your weight, because I have enough strength to carry two. Sit down, and stay awhile, and I will reform the darkness of the room from the shadows under your eyes. Let me stare into the vast incandescence of your dark eyes, and breed new galaxies through the mercuric meteor collisions.
I’ll illustrate the new, blithe world through ten swords.