the twisted tale of woven silks that wrap her tight begins to appear like new bruises.
everyone loses once in a while.
and in that style, she is held captive, in a process that had never been done. Left stagnant, hanging from the edge of her resolve, she curls and lets it engulf her. The world waltzes by in wisps of breezy nothings, her struggles made ever clearer on the background of fabricated appearances.
thus she began to melt away, soothed by the cocoon of sorrows, and trials where she lay.
her form is moulded into a smear of emptiness, her days bleed through like ink on parchment, the tasks no longer demanding, but soul-siphoning. the hours sifted through the sieve of loneliness, the minutes falling like sleet on unsettling ground. It comes around, but for now, she is in the middle of the mound. One of confusion, emptiness, one without a sound
one day, it is still.
stirring, loud stillness.
life begins to seep through the cracks in her mask, the gruelling task of reviving a wilting frame is much more than you could ask.
hardened shells, shaky limbs, sensors thin and gangly. wings pieced on like trailing remains, delicate and light.
ripped.
blindingly bright, the rays peak in from the tear.
nearly there, she falls and realises
the reality lies bare.
barely survived, cracked and torn apart, like a shipwreck in the sea.
but the difference, she thinks, is that i'm still alive and free.
a/n: what's "poetry + prose" without the prose? this is a prelude to whatever else I can conjure up once I get my act together :P