DemianHawthorne
12-16-2008, 08:00 AM
He is the boy with eyes of the deep blue chasm of the sea and golden gilded words of a blunt knife that cuts and pricks the heart, yet soothes the soul like a whispered lullaby, painted with strokes by Van Gough. With sunset soaked skies of brilliant colors and magnificent drenched sunrises, his allegro of words mystify and attract, souls painted in pale pastels and watercolors gravitating towards him like comets streaking past the void of space, too close to the blinding sun. Melting into drops of mercury, they pour away into the emptiness between the glowing stars, trickling into a blur of many faces, a stream of many soft voices and tides of laughter as his world darkens, the light extinguishing into dark night. It coils around him like a snake around it’s prey, suffocating his soul in the choking blackness of loneliness that knows not the brilliance of the stardust painted moon with its cold beauty or the vivid glare of the bright sun sketched with flames.
Enchanting words lure like Orpheus’s lyre, stringing in those pale souls, like moths seeking a warm flame for haven, yet pierces all like a double-edged sword that slices away Mozart’s beautiful harmony, barricading himself behind the labyrinth of his mind. Prometheus bound, he lies chained in his own sanctuary, knowing the melody of blind adoration and the sonatina of sweet, agonizing love but that cannot mend his fractured symphony, slashed open by the dagger of unrequited love. Ambitious thirst and his insatiable desire drives Icarus to soar higher, closer than he dares to the seductive sun, a dazzling entity of passion, knowing full well that one day, the masquerade will end and masks will melt away in searing, intense flames, feathers singing and charred as he tumbles to the crashing sea below, swallowing him with reality’s crushing, cold embrace. Until that day, Prometheus still remains bound, face towards the unquenchable sun as he waits salvation where he will finally be set free by Aphrodite’s sweet kiss.
Enchanting words lure like Orpheus’s lyre, stringing in those pale souls, like moths seeking a warm flame for haven, yet pierces all like a double-edged sword that slices away Mozart’s beautiful harmony, barricading himself behind the labyrinth of his mind. Prometheus bound, he lies chained in his own sanctuary, knowing the melody of blind adoration and the sonatina of sweet, agonizing love but that cannot mend his fractured symphony, slashed open by the dagger of unrequited love. Ambitious thirst and his insatiable desire drives Icarus to soar higher, closer than he dares to the seductive sun, a dazzling entity of passion, knowing full well that one day, the masquerade will end and masks will melt away in searing, intense flames, feathers singing and charred as he tumbles to the crashing sea below, swallowing him with reality’s crushing, cold embrace. Until that day, Prometheus still remains bound, face towards the unquenchable sun as he waits salvation where he will finally be set free by Aphrodite’s sweet kiss.