| Subject: <->~<->~<->~<->~Exit Wounds~<->~<->~<->~<-> |
Author:
Never The Less
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Date Posted: 08:12:48 03/18/01 Sun
Author Host/IP: px3nr.wp.shawcable.net/24.66.94.142
In reply to:
Exit Wounds
's message, "~~~~~ <{}> <{}>~~~Never the Less~~~ <{}> <{}> ~~~~~" on 15:49:43 03/17/01 Sat
*Her hooves cut restlessly through the ceaseless stream of winds, the winds which grasp her, consume her, though her power keeps them at a distance to bind their forces at bay........ Her lobes twist protestantly atop the matted, mangled threads of mane which scatter across her poll, shifting forward, backward, uncertain, neutral, her mood toward the breathless winds yet undecided...... Her own breaths spill from the lined shaft of her nostril, draining over the lip as a pitcher, flowing gently, gracefully into the air about her, the curls of white grasping the breezes in a fateful dance which leaves them to die, to dissolve within the wonder they dare to try..... Endless, effortless, impulsive of her deepened mind, her thoughts not so much as skimming the subjects of her breathing, locked away, deep within, on another worry which pounds at her chest as the cold snap of wind....... But though so deep in thought, so lost in her own ambitions and regrets, all falls away at the sight, the sight which causes her lobes to resume their placid dance, training to each sound, fighting the emotions, the instinct which struggles to pull them backward to lace her skull.... The fog ahead her, forming by her now hurried breath, seems to condense within the air for merely a moment, hanging, as the pane of a mirror, a mirror which mimics her every move, her every breath, her every emotion and thought.... One who seems to mock her airy motions, to gain the power which she hast, his eyes always upon her, watching her, watching her.... The only sign of his reality, that he were not simply a reflection of herself, the droning, desperate call which penetrates his feathery lips, grasped by the winds and tossed around so that the resonance remains long after the steed had ceased to cry..... Her lobes lift gently forward... Slowly.. The motion almost undetected, unseen, but for the look upon her face, her features, her shadow no longer displaying a distorted creature, but a fine sculpture amidst the stalk of grass....... For once, she is the one to listen..... The determined, stubborn mare now submitted, subjected to the tones, the tones which catch her long after they drift away with the roll of fluid through the unwaning plain, tossing, tangling, reaching upward to dissolve amidst the splayed mists...... He was real... Real as her own self.....*
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