| Subject: .hatred. *anyone, everyone, whomever* |
Author:
Wytch
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Date Posted: 15:22:40 10/19/02 Sat
(yes, I know bits and peices were ripped from Juni...but I wrote that one...so bah.*
Our world, perhaps, is a mind alurring situation, known fully only to those of the brazen heart and flawless demeanor. Death and life....such fickle, meaningless words, but such a demuring depth buried beneath each. Anything can understand life, in its meer meaning. But it isnt seen as it is, an auiferous spiritual awakening, blasting trumpets of bold reverie and verberations of vividness. Life. It seems that way, doesnt it? How we take it for granted...do we ever pause to be thankful? Every day, does a bold harpsicord echo brilliantly across a verdant cheronese, praising the heavens, and the genus that amazingly graces its Realm? Do we? Or do we damn those in spite, in hatred more often, forgetting the importance until it is too late to realize.
You know the answer.
A sickning reality to be brought to, indeed. But Death. Ah, Death. It seems lain, doesnt it? Such a native word, and again embedded with meanings. The abrupt drawing short of something to be rejoiced. It can loom, over the ill, as a prowess, awaiting a moment to strike. It does not hang over the dragons of the residence any immediatly.....but another emotion dissipates round te serpentinian maws.
Spite.
Immortality has its boundries, no doubt as seen with the flawless perfection of the feminine. But spite hung like an evil barb inside the developing heart of the fickle wytch. Things have changed, so much, yes. It was not the same. With a feline-like agility, the dracling skittered gracefully into the the hanging arbors from the top of the dominion, watching the others with a bitter reverie. THe sacrilege ground upon which she perched shadowed her from the sight of any; but two crystaline, emerald eyes scrutinizingly disembalmed from above in the lofty seculars of the realm.
The pellucid fatale raises a refined jowl, cursing the sky, hatred burning in a once pure soul. Damning all, damning the ones who came and went, leaving her on a lingering whim to unrealistically await their return. Damn them all. Its time for her to rate.
Isis.....how peculiar. Something isnt right, something is distorted indeed. A substantiate reason could not be grappled with....but she was changed. Cold. The miniscule mug bobbed in recolection of the germane word. She was cold.
In the crisp depths of the twilight the darkness which passed slowly over the orbs of the ghost fatale. A plyable bodice sinks to the frigid plantation, an esse surging over a pair of glazed orbs like a sharp slap. It was difficult, indeed, without a father. But without a mother.....life was hell.
Truely.
And as all good things come to an end, her life had truely ended long ago. When her loved ones were lost. Lost, indeed, if that was only it. Ignored. Ignored by the only one whom had a signifigance was the last remaining flicker which brought the draclings young sole oblation.
Blood And Chocolate.
She missed the matriarch dearly. It was murder inside, a captured soul within the confines of this, physique. She had to go, she had to do something. Hot tears of anguish spilled softly from the once-brazen orbs of the feminique, a passion blindindg all comprehendable thoughts. The juvinile shown cleary through the elloquent masquerade the wytch had been so intent on holding. Crouching low, in embarrasment, in conceited pity, call it what you wish.
She wept.
W Y T C H . H A Z E L
.the brazen.
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