Fleeting Existence

Don’t even both asking me where this came from, seriously. I have no idea. I think it’s something that’s been building at the edges of my mind for some while now but I can’t be certain. It’s like candlelight reflected on dark waters, distorted in essence but still shining through with such beauty that I couldn’t help but be drawn to it. I think I was actually in a poetry mood but I ended up writing this instead. Don’t expect it to be very good.

I am the creature of star dust and names, my heart a bridge between worlds and my wings the mask that lights the way. Can you see me as me or truly me, the child behind the eyes? Threads coming undone and secrets losing grasp. Heart stops beating, memories fleeting, the story never told.

I am the writer who will remain… should my heart withstand the flames.

Smoke stained trees and ash stained earth. Naught remains the same but the child that never was. She dances in the havoc, the great void stretching out before her like a darkened spotlight to the only stage in the universe. Silence is her music as she skips and twirls, a smile of bliss and sadness pulling harshly at her face. She knows not what has happened, what has been, nor what will be. She’s lucky to know the present.

The world is her muse as the moon reaches down to touch her pale sun neglected skin, this is her daylight, her first day kissed by a touch of night as she breaths in the poison left over from humanity, society, and conformity as if it were the sweetest scent and to her- it is.

The old world remains in places no longer long forgotten for none now remain to have remembered them in the first place. Buildings crumble and creak, cement and iron no match against the patient war lord known as time as he watches over her, knowing without knowing that history is often rewritten in the worst of ways.

Still the little girl dances. Her white smock all stained with soot spinning in the rust laden wind as she giggles and hums. She knows no expected potential, no lies, no truths, nor life and death. She merely is- a fresh new beginning only appearing at the end of the world.

If only they had listened, the people of days gone by, the people of the time before the void. If only they had let little children like her be, to dance and prance and sing without reason instead of taking them and shaping them into the greedy struggling creatures that were often and unknowingly cultivated.

Had they let them be, to truly be, the end would not be so near- never so dear, a new beginning as dirt stained light amid the shrouded rubble. She knows not of them, like all things, she never will. They are over and gone, a dark chapter never to be retold but as none now remain to tell the tale- she too is doomed, someday, to make the same mistakes.

If only a story teller had remained.

This feels very dark,… and very… grammatically screwed, for lack of a better phrase (trust me I tried for a whole minute to find one but grammatically screwed just kind of stuck).

I suppose this is my muse trying to twist her way out in a new form and I feel the need to explore it more thoroughly, so- methinks I shall have to draw a picture for this one. I’ll try to post it when I’m done.

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