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Mourning the death I endured, chained and taken prisoner in my own land.
Rotten Shreds. The Grief of my Own.
It had been a hushed morning departure, the birds quiet and the trees dreaded of change. I was cold, gown fully buttoned and eyes sunken still; and I'd be exceptionally shuddered with the way it clung to the trenches of my hilted bruises.
I remained where I had once been. Where I was killed and disregarded.
Searching for treacheries, my eyes had known, and came to the understanding that grief had a plunging divorce with the splintering bleakness that laid to rest. I was supposed to be dead.
I heard a distant noise. Clutter and chaos running amuck. I reach for the end of my dress, roping myself up and rooting a stance deep within the grass.
Sore and unstable, I somehow managed to obtain a comfortable balance.
Polished goods, and remorseful clinks of glass weighed a heavy ton with the recognition of a celebration. With the raging and chronic angers that had cleaved the raising tepidness, a restless and cracked ache, banked along the severities coiling the indifferent current.
The castle, a galling and sullen wasteland, with the baring nakedness of death and rot. Pale, with exquisite cloth, the latest hours piled a frigid tear to my freshly, rejuvenated self.
I raced, with soft steps towards the sound.
A furious coven of newborns settled themselves unwelcoming, and obnoxiously within the once quaint and peaceful manner of my kingdom. Whispering dithers, among drained folklore stained the musky silhouettes, dirtying the frozen pockets of verboten publicity. They knock and heed the inceptions while gathering the truthful and noble convictions of the lasting breath.
They were ruthless and careless. I woke up suddenly to the mourning faults of my life.
They took everything from me. All for the satisfaction and pleasure of dirtied blood.
No goodbye could've prepared me for my husband's death. He was a good man. Protective and respectful, and above all else, loving. A hand to hold onto was too far from my reach now.
I hadn't justly forgiven the unexpected death of my people.
I am wrathful. Aerated and fermented with the loss.
All while the killers enjoy their time and alcohol in the premise of my desires. This had been my world. Bloodshed or not, it was home.
A sting had rose virulently hastily and soured the cheekbones of my cracked lips. I heard a loud voice. It sounded just like the man from the night before.
"The feast is past us now. We must begin the transitions."
I loomed closer to the sound, though my view was hidden. I knew where I had been. The grand hall used for elegant balls had a booming echo to the hollow and airy walls. I made sure to remain quiet.
