Post by .Rabid Lycan. on Nov 22, 2010 17:45:41 GMT -5
Listen.
I can smell the death on the sheets
Covering me
I can't believe this is the end
The day was young, not yet bright enough to make out the unique patterns of bark on each individual tree, with the evening chill still comfortably settled over the forest. It had been growing steadily colder, as a cycles did. For everyone, life was a year—one could live older than the other, but it was all essentially a year of life. A year of four seasons.
But this is my deathbed
I lie here alone
If I close my eyes tonight
I know I'll be home
Spring. Early on, there would be frostbitten remnants of an earlier time (or a later time), but the alluring beauty would distract from such issues. It was the time for daisies, for honeysuckle, for bedtime stories and plump young bellies. An innocent time, where turtles could fly if only you imagined they could. And the gradual warmth would give way to heat—to the later years.
Summer. Dozy nights, with fireflies kissing the tips of nostrils and blades of russet weeds tickling the undersides of young lovers. The time for growth, for livelihood, for that essential transition from child to adult—or what could be perceived as an adult. But they had time for learning yet.
Autumn. Scarlet-flamed coats shedding from the backs of oaks. Colder, now, but not frozen—never frozen. It seemed a calmer time, a much calmer time, than the hot-blooded blur of summer days. Here there be leisurely strolls, caring for new pups in a little nook to call their own. Peace, and scenery.
And suddenly the world cools. An absence of warmth—where had the loved ones gone? The kids had moved away, the spouse had passed on—what remained aside from the arctic wind in your bones? A pulse, maybe, and a faint one at that.
But there is something tranquil, something surreal, about Winter. The snow is deep, and the frost is searing, but there is a satisfying finality to it all, as if the loose ends of some wonderful story were tied up in a neat little bow. Maybe it is a depressing time, a lonely time, but acceptance? It will come. Eventually, if not now, it will come—the story cannot be hidden forever, no. Not when it arrives in so perfect an arrangement.
Magic limped his way to the edge of the hill, and slowly sagged his form down. A tiredness weighed heavily on his brow, and with that came a certain wisdom to the old Healer. His family had long since passed, and he had never had children—aside from Annelise, if you would count her. And now that she had returned, he now succumbed to the drowsiness that he had dragged onward for so long.
No, it was no use fighting this. It was his season, now, and he envisioned a future Spring. One with daisies, and honeysuckle… and warmth…
Magic slowly drifted his eyes shut, and slipped quietly into his final sleep.
I can smell the death on the sheets
Covering me
I can't believe this is the end
The day was young, not yet bright enough to make out the unique patterns of bark on each individual tree, with the evening chill still comfortably settled over the forest. It had been growing steadily colder, as a cycles did. For everyone, life was a year—one could live older than the other, but it was all essentially a year of life. A year of four seasons.
But this is my deathbed
I lie here alone
If I close my eyes tonight
I know I'll be home
Spring. Early on, there would be frostbitten remnants of an earlier time (or a later time), but the alluring beauty would distract from such issues. It was the time for daisies, for honeysuckle, for bedtime stories and plump young bellies. An innocent time, where turtles could fly if only you imagined they could. And the gradual warmth would give way to heat—to the later years.
Summer. Dozy nights, with fireflies kissing the tips of nostrils and blades of russet weeds tickling the undersides of young lovers. The time for growth, for livelihood, for that essential transition from child to adult—or what could be perceived as an adult. But they had time for learning yet.
Autumn. Scarlet-flamed coats shedding from the backs of oaks. Colder, now, but not frozen—never frozen. It seemed a calmer time, a much calmer time, than the hot-blooded blur of summer days. Here there be leisurely strolls, caring for new pups in a little nook to call their own. Peace, and scenery.
And suddenly the world cools. An absence of warmth—where had the loved ones gone? The kids had moved away, the spouse had passed on—what remained aside from the arctic wind in your bones? A pulse, maybe, and a faint one at that.
But there is something tranquil, something surreal, about Winter. The snow is deep, and the frost is searing, but there is a satisfying finality to it all, as if the loose ends of some wonderful story were tied up in a neat little bow. Maybe it is a depressing time, a lonely time, but acceptance? It will come. Eventually, if not now, it will come—the story cannot be hidden forever, no. Not when it arrives in so perfect an arrangement.
Magic limped his way to the edge of the hill, and slowly sagged his form down. A tiredness weighed heavily on his brow, and with that came a certain wisdom to the old Healer. His family had long since passed, and he had never had children—aside from Annelise, if you would count her. And now that she had returned, he now succumbed to the drowsiness that he had dragged onward for so long.
No, it was no use fighting this. It was his season, now, and he envisioned a future Spring. One with daisies, and honeysuckle… and warmth…
Magic slowly drifted his eyes shut, and slipped quietly into his final sleep.