| Subject: †:::::. ....Twisted Silver.... .:::::† |
Author:
Never The Less
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Date Posted: 19:03:46 04/14/01 Sat
Author Host/IP: px3nr.wp.shawcable.net/24.66.94.142
In reply to:
Twisted Silver
's message, "-----------=-----------> ... Never The Less ... <-----------=-----------" on 09:10:13 04/13/01 Fri
*Her vision rocks unsteadily ahead, her optics torn across a vast ocean of pulsing fear, of pounding fate, a desire, a lust to draw nearer, a curiosity about him, yet opposing it, a hate, a stubborn withdrawl, a horrific demon cast before her eyes, shielding her, taunting her, scratching with whispered temptation at her sockets, her skull screaming with disobeyence of the limbs which bunch beneath her body, pulling her to a mangled, compact mess............ His light shone so brightly... His thirsts and hungers of life, his questions, his cares, washed away, dissolved in the simple pot of love which collected each strand of worry, of hate, of knowledge of what was worst, of things he had clearly never seen, this demon as one, plain before her, yet opaquely faded within his eyes.......... She shifts her neck sublimely, a wash of tranquillity drilling down the protestant lids of her eyes as her mind wanders forth within its shrinking gallies, tiredly, weakly, his thoughts meandering thoughtlessly through the stream of her blood which carries them, lifting them atop their coupled bodies in an endless flow, a flow which reaches each tip of her body, casting her downward within this rest, this capting rest which consumes her, binding her, cloaking her, as if in struggle to cause her to sleep so that it might preform a gastly deed against her.... But him..... Surely he had never thought this way, never wondered of how he might have survived, never hoped nor prayed that his last hopes would not be stolen from him, shredded before his eyes and cast along with him into the ceaseless pitts of falsehood........... The whispy locks of her crimson mane, a tangled embroidery of thread, lay stationed by her forehead, caught upon the protrudant ridge of her brow and held in contact, the loose strands winding in protestant struggle to free themselves of the prison in which they lay, destroyed, shamed, torn and tattered on the cold floor beneath them.. The locks twist about her still-gazing eye, curling, dancing, leaping, her mind wandering off as she struggles to make sense of what lays hidden beneath the lens of those dark, yet hoping eyes, the eyes that burn forth in radiant splay, a nearly-sickening goodness with the sweetness of honey itself that pours from him, reaching out with a patient hand to stroke her hesitant soul....... Why..? Why had he not once lost that unmistakable aura about him, never lost a clutching hold upon the cup of overflowing hope, hope which could no doubt be shared with another, by any other, so long as he knew to use it as this steed had.......... Her joint trembles in an anticipated advance as she desperately searches the immediate earth about her, for a disturbance, for any disturbance, as if in a moment, as she took upon herself the gaining step, a feline, compact, swift, shadow-like, might break from the shadows in descent upon her back, burrying her claws into the femme's flesh, tearing, ripping...... Yet she steps... Hesitantly, though, she steps.... And rising in vision from the twisting ocean of earth beneath her, she returns a steady gaze to the darkened steed.........* I am.. Never The Less...... *Her voice drains in a voice held just beneath a whisper......*
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