{ absolute psalm } samson + eden
Jul 6, 2016 21:18:45 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jul 6, 2016 21:18:45 GMT -5
{ ✝ }
Reaping day is Judgement day.
The earth rocks beneath you.
You asked yourself with left hand free, the sybillic glimpse of black blood spilling and silver exscinding the inky mess at your feet. You asked yourself when you held that impossible jumble of somethingness -- a fragile organ embedded in the grip of her fingers, foreign and untouchable, as you watched it seep and stain your hand. Your parents have never so much as questioned the faith of afterlife. Oh, but you've wondered and wondered if you were ready for this gamble.
Scout Krigel was reaped in the morning.
She rose to the podium, the sun radiant and perfect behind the halo of Leon's crown. And just as their name had been built upon that temporal stage, District Four will watch their kingdom fall to this trick of the light -- Scout Krigel will die, perhaps,
as Nat had,
as people will,
as God commands them to.
You cannot tell if it's atonement or salvation, if it's sin or virtue that brings tributes kneeled before the knife. The chain of the cross burns as it moves against your skin, tucked underneath your shirt and upon the things that no one will ever need to know. When you close your eyes, you lose the light. The sun melts into the ocean -- last beams hitting water and rocking the earth beneath your feet.
You blink again to stop the vertigo.
He did not call your name this morning and you did not move to fulfill the end fate bestowed upon a Parish. Your parents would tell you it wasn't your time yet. It wasn't supposed to be. You weren't ready.
Instead, Roger Strangways-Teach raised his hand and went to the podium after Scout. You observed his steps so carefully in those moments, so cautiously as to be able to judge if this stranger was to be a sinner or a saint, if he knew why he had wanted death or life -- a speculation, a game of chances both ways.
But you couldn't tell.
You could never tell.
Theists and nonbelievers, your parents told you it was your duty to be ruled here before God. It was you and Samson and Cain and Able, waiting at this age.
You saw Samson standing at the Reaping in the ashen hush of summer quiet, dark hair fanning out across her pale shoulders, gaze fixated on that glass ball. And you've known her in the midst of those fabric limbs, plastic bones, rising in the middle of a chaos in the training centre.
Duty. But for you -- you wondered when they pulled Leon Krigel from that arena, when his siblings were called in subsequent years like clockwork, like analog. You wondered at every volunteer and tribute since you stood at the Reaping as a Parish.
You asked yourself before, with hands heavy holding the weight of some pitch black, answerless, dawnless question. And now you ask her at slack tide, finding her in the stillness of a gambling sea.
"Samson,"
pause, and the wind howls.
"Were they deserving?"
The earth rocks beneath you.
You asked yourself with left hand free, the sybillic glimpse of black blood spilling and silver exscinding the inky mess at your feet. You asked yourself when you held that impossible jumble of somethingness -- a fragile organ embedded in the grip of her fingers, foreign and untouchable, as you watched it seep and stain your hand. Your parents have never so much as questioned the faith of afterlife. Oh, but you've wondered and wondered if you were ready for this gamble.
Scout Krigel was reaped in the morning.
She rose to the podium, the sun radiant and perfect behind the halo of Leon's crown. And just as their name had been built upon that temporal stage, District Four will watch their kingdom fall to this trick of the light -- Scout Krigel will die, perhaps,
as Nat had,
as people will,
as God commands them to.
You cannot tell if it's atonement or salvation, if it's sin or virtue that brings tributes kneeled before the knife. The chain of the cross burns as it moves against your skin, tucked underneath your shirt and upon the things that no one will ever need to know. When you close your eyes, you lose the light. The sun melts into the ocean -- last beams hitting water and rocking the earth beneath your feet.
You blink again to stop the vertigo.
He did not call your name this morning and you did not move to fulfill the end fate bestowed upon a Parish. Your parents would tell you it wasn't your time yet. It wasn't supposed to be. You weren't ready.
Instead, Roger Strangways-Teach raised his hand and went to the podium after Scout. You observed his steps so carefully in those moments, so cautiously as to be able to judge if this stranger was to be a sinner or a saint, if he knew why he had wanted death or life -- a speculation, a game of chances both ways.
But you couldn't tell.
You could never tell.
Theists and nonbelievers, your parents told you it was your duty to be ruled here before God. It was you and Samson and Cain and Able, waiting at this age.
You saw Samson standing at the Reaping in the ashen hush of summer quiet, dark hair fanning out across her pale shoulders, gaze fixated on that glass ball. And you've known her in the midst of those fabric limbs, plastic bones, rising in the middle of a chaos in the training centre.
Duty. But for you -- you wondered when they pulled Leon Krigel from that arena, when his siblings were called in subsequent years like clockwork, like analog. You wondered at every volunteer and tribute since you stood at the Reaping as a Parish.
You asked yourself before, with hands heavy holding the weight of some pitch black, answerless, dawnless question. And now you ask her at slack tide, finding her in the stillness of a gambling sea.
"Samson,"
pause, and the wind howls.
"Were they deserving?"
{ The ocean holding everything,
And tossed aside the weary.
Aw that dreadful,
gambling sea }
And tossed aside the weary.
Aw that dreadful,
gambling sea }
