April 21, 2010 - 6:45am — Sonata
the edge of a mirror.
cold.
muffled.
like the flutter of a nightingale's wing.
like Snow.
Falling.
Cast into a world without sin for his sins.
Forever caught in motion, caught like tears upon the cheek of a young child.
Would he ever land?
"what is this place..."
Eyes opening.
flutter of aurora.
did he care?
Was he really falling?
just the wind.
No amazement at his new body.
"I'm cold"
That sun looked nice.
Move.
go ahead.
Stand
Wobbling.
Why so shaky?
antlers catching on the bushes.
Such beautiful antlers.
Twisting.
Turning.
Like the snow in the wind.
Scrabbling.
"the sun is nice
here
yes..."
quiet.
Why is it so quiet.
it's too quiet.
birds.
not quiet enough.
not that kind of quiet.
did he care?
not really.
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don't mind this, when I have writers block, I just like to relax and type down whatever words pop into my head.
