the lights turned, then turned again [tom; WE]
Jan 6, 2019 22:49:58 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Jan 6, 2019 22:49:58 GMT -5
muse stratos
I watch the work of my kin bold and boyful
Toying somewhere between love and abuse
Calling to join them the wretched and joyful
Shaking the wings of their terrible youths
The world around him is blurred at the edges, lights softening into dots as his gaze shifts: on red hair and a freckled nose, then a stout face with a boisterous laugh, then a dancer with delicate fingers. The ulnar plane of his hand slowly turns gray, graphite skittering with his attention-span. He breathes slowly, calmly as he takes a moment, a sip of a beer that been purchased with an ID as sketched as his drawings. But Time, Life, moves. He inscribes the moments into paper, secures memories into the everlasting.
The tavern he's picked is a smaller one - intimate, quaint. He can see the texture of the trees that built this room, burned into the walls. The lights from the vaulted roof cast a dim glow over the patrons; cobwebs spiral upwards in the corners of the walls, sequestered to the scuttering shadows. Almost absentmindedly he draws it: a spider curled up for the night, settling in for the show.
The chatter is muted, wrought with feelings abstracted into heavy sighs, laughter too loud, outrage muted into something morose. Tonight, the whole country celebrates. Tonight, the whole country mourns.
Muse tries to think of something else - he squints his eyes to see the forms of tables turned into shades, shadows and light in their simplest rendering.
He doesn't know why the only color he can conjure up is red: the crimson at the corners of his father's eyes, the ruby edge on his mother's lipstick, scarlet fire that burns through thick black, sickly maroon weeping down a neck. His neck.
A second color, then. Blue.
His eyes were so, so, blue.
Muse's eyelids meet with a tenderness he wishes death had shown to that boy, as he takes a deep breath. Five years on, five years with the ghost of what could have been at the periphery of his vision. His parents would say that he has better things to do, facts and figures to memorize; but they were always ones who lived in the equations. He lies in the ethereal, the liberal, the palette that goes on and on.
The bar, for a few moments, is silent. He takes it in, creates the schematic with quick strokes and gestures, the soft scrape of a pencil the only audible noise.
And when the door is thrown open to let in the night, the calm, the quiet, bubbles over into effervescence.
---
Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene - Hozier
White Elephant 2018: Muse Stratos ↔ Freida S. Ngu
I watch the work of my kin bold and boyful
Toying somewhere between love and abuse
Calling to join them the wretched and joyful
Shaking the wings of their terrible youths
The world around him is blurred at the edges, lights softening into dots as his gaze shifts: on red hair and a freckled nose, then a stout face with a boisterous laugh, then a dancer with delicate fingers. The ulnar plane of his hand slowly turns gray, graphite skittering with his attention-span. He breathes slowly, calmly as he takes a moment, a sip of a beer that been purchased with an ID as sketched as his drawings. But Time, Life, moves. He inscribes the moments into paper, secures memories into the everlasting.
The tavern he's picked is a smaller one - intimate, quaint. He can see the texture of the trees that built this room, burned into the walls. The lights from the vaulted roof cast a dim glow over the patrons; cobwebs spiral upwards in the corners of the walls, sequestered to the scuttering shadows. Almost absentmindedly he draws it: a spider curled up for the night, settling in for the show.
The chatter is muted, wrought with feelings abstracted into heavy sighs, laughter too loud, outrage muted into something morose. Tonight, the whole country celebrates. Tonight, the whole country mourns.
Muse tries to think of something else - he squints his eyes to see the forms of tables turned into shades, shadows and light in their simplest rendering.
He doesn't know why the only color he can conjure up is red: the crimson at the corners of his father's eyes, the ruby edge on his mother's lipstick, scarlet fire that burns through thick black, sickly maroon weeping down a neck. His neck.
A second color, then. Blue.
His eyes were so, so, blue.
Muse's eyelids meet with a tenderness he wishes death had shown to that boy, as he takes a deep breath. Five years on, five years with the ghost of what could have been at the periphery of his vision. His parents would say that he has better things to do, facts and figures to memorize; but they were always ones who lived in the equations. He lies in the ethereal, the liberal, the palette that goes on and on.
The bar, for a few moments, is silent. He takes it in, creates the schematic with quick strokes and gestures, the soft scrape of a pencil the only audible noise.
And when the door is thrown open to let in the night, the calm, the quiet, bubbles over into effervescence.
---
Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene - Hozier
White Elephant 2018: Muse Stratos ↔ Freida S. Ngu
