This is my backup account for misschevious. This account holds one of my characters so it will also be used to log into the forest. Just wanted to let you guys know first before something would happen to the other account. I will be posting a copy of the biographies of both characters I have for future references and just in case anything happens.
"I swallow the sound and it swallows me whole
Till there's nothing left inside my soul
As empty as that beating drum
But the sound has just begun."
"No one knows the true extent of waiting, the slow sickening slide of hours, the knowledge that what comes next will decide everything. The seconds tick away leaving a trail as gruesome and as crucial as blood flowing from severed veins. With every beat of the hands I can feel it build within me, as insistent as the beat of a war drum. Adrenaline builds, sounds quicken, darkness will fall. And this time we know. Something is out there. Among the dandelions phantom images fight out the past battle. They flicker as they fade in and out of existence. Slowly the battles of my past appear, blending so tightly to the hills that they cannot be torn apart. Red seeps deep into the soil branching up into every living thing crawling like veins. The fog swirls around, drawn to my skin cloaking me in shadow. The insistent buzz of flies climbs upward. I've waited years for a fight like this. I'm ready. "
"I can hear this beat it fills my head up
And gets louder and louder
It fills my head up and gets louder and louder"
The doe was not disappointed. The creatures came in waves, burned blacked husks made from brittle wood, razor filled maws. Weak as they looked they leveled to ground, bursting in to licking fire and smothering ash. Deer whirled around her in a dance of death. 40 or so against thousands, odds stacked higher than the skies. The beat of Lilith's heart filled her head. Back home she had carved a a hole for herself, her reputation did not lie. They had feared her with all that they had.
Once, I wrote a poem for a stag in a rather lot of trouble.
Something began from that moment. I didn't intent to let it end today... And I ended up writing a pair of poems for that stag in a rather lot of trouble. To some extent, they were to steady my own nerves, though.
[center]1. Your Wound
Your wound
leaks memories; deer caught in
his struggle, your wound
bleeds stories fading
the ground in splashes
of half-real fog-light.
I mumble dream-verses,
soak in hope to sponge
against your wounds:
do you remember, then,
those winters, those springs,
those talks of colors half-real,
longings we ourselves cannot devise?
Have these faded, too, into
the blood and the fog that eats
at your limbs? I press my head to your heart
longing still for its signal
that you will rise again, and days
will be as they were.
2. The War in the Fog
I spot you in the fog.
where your body presses, light splinters
in slender, wavering shafts. Your wound
is deep, and in the tremble of the air, howls
of fanged beasts rise, clawed
and fully ready. I wait, and bear your hope.
I feel their thunderhead-rising, and can only hope
to trick them from you in the fog:
oh, the futility of such escape, death and its claws,
but still, my fear is sharper, driven in my heart, a splinter
that you may not rise again, howls
at tornado pitch through me. I will wound
if I must, the sniveling beasts that wound
their way through the day, or so I hope:
has night already broken? The howls,
ceaseless. The bodies, lost in fog.
You and they are all alive; my words splinter.
Heartbeat. Earthquake. Courage. Claws.
They circle without meaning, avoiding the clawed
out sight of your chest, my heart's drop at your wound.
The crowd races and darts, recollects, bands, splinters,
organized only by the passing moment's will.
