andave_ya
01-24-2008, 11:26 PM
Rivers gurgle in my veins
Silent trees stand sentinel in the half-dark.
The silver thrum of a lilting voice
Sounding plaintive in the gathering dusk.
Cradled in the high roots of oak.
I wish to die here, please.
The sea of forest wafts steady assurance.
I am caught in a heady lull
Until the Voice stops.
The rivers now burn,
The sentinels fade to flickering forms.
Crisply businesslike tones mutter, impersonal.
"She's in pain."
Am I?
I feel the river near again.
The trees form, again.
Gentle guards in the fastness of dark.
Promising safety as I journey deeper,
Into the verdancy.
Winding woodland beckons.
Calling with its earthy song,
Driving me deeper into the forest.
Heeding, I follow.
The river nears.
A winding snake, silver-glistening,
On the outskirts of my sight.
The Voice still luring onward.
Till I reach the bank.
Sudden storm clouds form--
Thunder booms, as, approaching,
I see them, dead things, crystalline.
The voice is changed.
It mutters, thunders, my beating heart
Takes form in tangible fear.
The way back is shut.
No choice but onward.
But no bridge? The voice stops.
Speaks, many-layered sound of old!
"Shall I lower the bridge or open the way?
The way back--or the bridge forth?
What ties you back, child?"
What ties? My life?
No ties. No holds. Not I.
I know them not.
"Then enter."
The rope bridge quivers
As I step.
The Dead rise, engulf me.
Wisping strands-hands-of moonlight
Wrap my body in loving caress--
Fit parched mouths over my own,
Hungering for my warm breath,
Fluttering butterflies on marble cheeks.
Cooling, dying as I come to the end.
Their hands a cool chill as they drift, lower,
Slipping frigid under my sleeves.
Slipping them lower, down, off,
Caressing my pulsing chest,
Stilling the blood there, in their deepening
Journey to my heart-always slowing, always stilling,
Until they reach it.
Heart stills.
Breath chills.
Skin freezes.
I have crossed the bridge.
I belong to the Dead.
I am the Dead.
Rivers gurgle.
Silent trees stand sentinel in the half-dark,
Promising to herald the advent of a new soul.
The voices, silver-thrumming, move on.
A new voice joins the chorus.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Upon completing the body of this yesterday I was officially weirded out. I don't know if it's any good. It's just a fantasy idea of death -- I don't believe this'll happen.
Silent trees stand sentinel in the half-dark.
The silver thrum of a lilting voice
Sounding plaintive in the gathering dusk.
Cradled in the high roots of oak.
I wish to die here, please.
The sea of forest wafts steady assurance.
I am caught in a heady lull
Until the Voice stops.
The rivers now burn,
The sentinels fade to flickering forms.
Crisply businesslike tones mutter, impersonal.
"She's in pain."
Am I?
I feel the river near again.
The trees form, again.
Gentle guards in the fastness of dark.
Promising safety as I journey deeper,
Into the verdancy.
Winding woodland beckons.
Calling with its earthy song,
Driving me deeper into the forest.
Heeding, I follow.
The river nears.
A winding snake, silver-glistening,
On the outskirts of my sight.
The Voice still luring onward.
Till I reach the bank.
Sudden storm clouds form--
Thunder booms, as, approaching,
I see them, dead things, crystalline.
The voice is changed.
It mutters, thunders, my beating heart
Takes form in tangible fear.
The way back is shut.
No choice but onward.
But no bridge? The voice stops.
Speaks, many-layered sound of old!
"Shall I lower the bridge or open the way?
The way back--or the bridge forth?
What ties you back, child?"
What ties? My life?
No ties. No holds. Not I.
I know them not.
"Then enter."
The rope bridge quivers
As I step.
The Dead rise, engulf me.
Wisping strands-hands-of moonlight
Wrap my body in loving caress--
Fit parched mouths over my own,
Hungering for my warm breath,
Fluttering butterflies on marble cheeks.
Cooling, dying as I come to the end.
Their hands a cool chill as they drift, lower,
Slipping frigid under my sleeves.
Slipping them lower, down, off,
Caressing my pulsing chest,
Stilling the blood there, in their deepening
Journey to my heart-always slowing, always stilling,
Until they reach it.
Heart stills.
Breath chills.
Skin freezes.
I have crossed the bridge.
I belong to the Dead.
I am the Dead.
Rivers gurgle.
Silent trees stand sentinel in the half-dark,
Promising to herald the advent of a new soul.
The voices, silver-thrumming, move on.
A new voice joins the chorus.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Upon completing the body of this yesterday I was officially weirded out. I don't know if it's any good. It's just a fantasy idea of death -- I don't believe this'll happen.