So, I have been writing since...
Gosh, forever.
Some pieces I wrote a very short length ago.
Please read and tell me what you think?
Read either one, tell me which one you wrote about.
The quote in The Cage is credited to me; I'm not good and things like that. x3 Yes, my last name is D'Evreux.
Gosh, forever.
Some pieces I wrote a very short length ago.
Please read and tell me what you think?
Read either one, tell me which one you wrote about.
The quote in The Cage is credited to me; I'm not good and things like that. x3 Yes, my last name is D'Evreux.
The Winter Waltz
Delicate is their steps,
so did I, to abide in them carelessly.
Among the particles splayed would be:
the crystals of svelte pattern that did fall from the heavens;
unannounced, softly did they part in the heavy mists
in a symphony of a melody worthy of a lullaby.
Frost pained on my flesh and the surface of my window;
so thus, the curtain was drawn back into a roll of frigid polyester.
Delicate were the patterns,
the patterns of new and for eternity drawn
on the glass of my window.
Among these patterns breathed unto my window:
abstract lines lightly waltzing across the plain,
and with an amateur digit did I reach out to envelope them;
to my touch they collapsed, and solemnly I recoiled my touch.
Bitten limbs of trees buckled under.
I did my part to watch them with such practicality.
For like the crystals decorating my pane,
I wanted them to dance.
Alas, the sky was painted gray and the flakes still fell;
My shining flakes would not come until morning;
so there, I waned my patience.
so did I, to abide in them carelessly.
Among the particles splayed would be:
the crystals of svelte pattern that did fall from the heavens;
unannounced, softly did they part in the heavy mists
in a symphony of a melody worthy of a lullaby.
Frost pained on my flesh and the surface of my window;
so thus, the curtain was drawn back into a roll of frigid polyester.
Delicate were the patterns,
the patterns of new and for eternity drawn
on the glass of my window.
Among these patterns breathed unto my window:
abstract lines lightly waltzing across the plain,
and with an amateur digit did I reach out to envelope them;
to my touch they collapsed, and solemnly I recoiled my touch.
Bitten limbs of trees buckled under.
I did my part to watch them with such practicality.
For like the crystals decorating my pane,
I wanted them to dance.
Alas, the sky was painted gray and the flakes still fell;
My shining flakes would not come until morning;
so there, I waned my patience.
The Cage
"Insidiously graceful is death; morbid is fate, which is what an entity interprets. For, in honest thought, we must stop and notice the horrors that had long befallen us as we are only Human." --T. D'Evreux
Limp was the skeleton of a neglected woman; a once vibrant beauty of the higher degrees and the noble of bloods. Indeed, she was beautiful still; in blunt fact and inhumane humor, you see she is starving; though vaguely alive. Her hands were that of a Crone’s, her vital breaths of sanity and life were existent no longer. Imprisoning her ankles were iron shackles which had once had their mark on the new flesh of the young woman. Alas, her youth was no longer, for the three weeks had aged her; minimal wage in the baked but burned flour had done nothing for her unquenchable thirst. It was unfair, this fate that she harbored carelessly within her living yet decaying body of mind.
For hours and days, she had cried out in pain and longing for the return of the sun. When her whining became unbearable to the ‘higher ups’ that carefully and cautiously guarded the Cage, they had allowed her the luxury of a oil lamp light; provided its heat was little, she all but touched the darkly tinted glass of the softly burning lamp. A temporary luxury it had been; but everything but die sooner or later.
After hope had been taken from her and shattered against the granite walls of the corridor, this fading woman recoiled unto and into herself, never to use her notes of gentle cords again.
So in the deafening silence, she did nothing but numb her flesh against the stones.
Dearly was life and svelte was her thinning locks; alabaster was her flesh, and dead were her finger tips. In reality, she had become a prisoner of internal conflicts. It was but her dying consciousness.
It is here that torture was not needed; the Cage was abandoned, and her minimal wage had followed the guards.
With almost no chance of liberation, the dear woman gave up in the joys of the dying; so, with more than paroxysmal outbursts of tears, she fell limp and into the hands of all that is obtained at the end of desire.
Alas, her much anticipated death would not come, for mercy graced her fallen determination; the Men of New had come, and ripped the cell bars from their rusted hinges. Her hand had once limply lay on the cold metal, her fingers that of an aged seamstress; bruised, as if the Devil’s hand held her own. She was paralyzed with fear when the arms of Salvation had delicately picked up her further than gaunt body. So did she escape? No. For, she was only human; it was whom saved her that had the power to free the unbreakable.
Never again would she fall into the grasp of granite; instead, the one land that was promised was obtained, and she all but resided at Evil’s doorstep.
Limp was the skeleton of a neglected woman; a once vibrant beauty of the higher degrees and the noble of bloods. Indeed, she was beautiful still; in blunt fact and inhumane humor, you see she is starving; though vaguely alive. Her hands were that of a Crone’s, her vital breaths of sanity and life were existent no longer. Imprisoning her ankles were iron shackles which had once had their mark on the new flesh of the young woman. Alas, her youth was no longer, for the three weeks had aged her; minimal wage in the baked but burned flour had done nothing for her unquenchable thirst. It was unfair, this fate that she harbored carelessly within her living yet decaying body of mind.
For hours and days, she had cried out in pain and longing for the return of the sun. When her whining became unbearable to the ‘higher ups’ that carefully and cautiously guarded the Cage, they had allowed her the luxury of a oil lamp light; provided its heat was little, she all but touched the darkly tinted glass of the softly burning lamp. A temporary luxury it had been; but everything but die sooner or later.
After hope had been taken from her and shattered against the granite walls of the corridor, this fading woman recoiled unto and into herself, never to use her notes of gentle cords again.
So in the deafening silence, she did nothing but numb her flesh against the stones.
Dearly was life and svelte was her thinning locks; alabaster was her flesh, and dead were her finger tips. In reality, she had become a prisoner of internal conflicts. It was but her dying consciousness.
It is here that torture was not needed; the Cage was abandoned, and her minimal wage had followed the guards.
With almost no chance of liberation, the dear woman gave up in the joys of the dying; so, with more than paroxysmal outbursts of tears, she fell limp and into the hands of all that is obtained at the end of desire.
Alas, her much anticipated death would not come, for mercy graced her fallen determination; the Men of New had come, and ripped the cell bars from their rusted hinges. Her hand had once limply lay on the cold metal, her fingers that of an aged seamstress; bruised, as if the Devil’s hand held her own. She was paralyzed with fear when the arms of Salvation had delicately picked up her further than gaunt body. So did she escape? No. For, she was only human; it was whom saved her that had the power to free the unbreakable.
Never again would she fall into the grasp of granite; instead, the one land that was promised was obtained, and she all but resided at Evil’s doorstep.
