mischko
ubw rookie
Joined: Jun 09, 2004
Location: Germany, Europe
Posts: 62
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| Posted: Thu Dec 07, 2006 11:14 pm |
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a rough sketch:
High above of a sickle shaped moon, all my senseless thoughts slip and drown, a place where time has gone out of mind, I hide in your room in my phantom flesh, somebody has sent some dark angel, as cold as marble, as cold as fool’s gold, I shiver and shake in your room, as he passes by and lurks for me, I hear the bad words and see the bad deeds, like ghouls from the past, from a long forgotten past, dark and cold, eyes glow in the dark, from a dark cupboard something crouches down the bed, touches my heart, it is lurking in the chimney, lurking to find me and to make me vanish from here, long teeth and claws, razor sharp, sickle shaped like the moon haunt me thru the room, haunt my memories, memories seemed gone out of sight, somewhere far away a statue of light, once shining bright, at a place and at time once so close to me, far away the absolute instinct leaves us standing mute, frozen like. Somebody is baking my bones for telling lies, pulling the pastry from the pie and pours the gravy in your eye, somebody says, listen to his body moan, make a wish and send him home. The soil of my sadness, like a faint choir tenderly shaping a lament, likes a hollow refuge. Nothing can erase that night, there is still light with you, and if we never can see the sun again, there is still light with you, I have seen all I want to, I have felt all I want to, but I can’t dream what I want to, and from the ceiling of your room I see a crooked man walking across a crooked country and something crouches around your bed, trying to hollow your memories with sickle shaped claws and white mad teeth, like razor sharp lies and mad hate, with bitter taste of contempt, pale like the moon shining on your house and a crow starts its sad song, croaking my name, echoing thru the night all alone, in a crooked country with a crooked hollow man searching for hollow memories with a crow on his shoulder still croaking his name. From your ceiling I see a crooked man bending over a book with handwritten pages, old pages gnawed by time and pain, and as I move closer to him, looking over his shoulder, I see what is written, I see the letters washed off by tears, he is looking at empty pages, looking at them like only he knows what was once written on them, and he is turning the pages slowly and carefully, trying not to break them as they are old and fragile by the time, and at one page I can see him stop turning the pages of the book, just holding, pressing his hand on that one page, closing his eyes and I see a single tear falling down, and I see it falling for ever, never hitting the page, and it seems the crooked man and his hand are vanishing slowly now, only the sound of the croaking crow is there, and some name which I can’t understand is echoing in your room and its sound hits me deep inside my heart, like a glass hand cuts the water. And suddenly I realize that something lurking from the chimney with sickle shaped claws and white mad teeth is vanishing the crooked man walking in a crooked country, like a memory is vanishing from your mind, slowly but steady. Once more I see the crooked man as he passes by, looking at you, I think I can see a tired feeble smile, and some sad fragile hope in his eyes for something he has lost. |
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