The PenFlowing out of the wound, the dark liquid stains the bright canvas below. Silently suffering, the wounded wraps a shred of cloth over the ragged gash of flesh, and it vanishes under a round cloth. Oozing out, the silent injury leaks a faint trail over the damp earth underfoot...Now empty, the faded landscape is tainted... a trail of pitiful contrast with the pure soil on which it lies, meandering throughout the textured ground. Corrosive, any land in contact with the liquid sinks, sizzles, slowly falls into a running crevasse, permanent and unmoveable, etched forever in the white stone, gulleys of black stain, rivers of pain and suffering, inscribed, carved into the stone, the man, the paper... The pen... It is mightier than the sword.
ShatteredAt a loss for words, the continual motions of everything pulse around me, enshrouding, wrapping, a blanket of activity, pulling at every corner of existence, draining, spilling, tearing at my mental fabric.Cold...? No... No. Warmth, itchy, uncomfortable, coarse, nagging... lost. Lost words, extinct species, ideas that will never be borne on the back of the paper, breaths that will never be exhaled, silence that will never be broken... Death. The inability to think, a premonition of death. Cold, dissolving into nothingness , into darkness, into frozen fractured fragments that are lifted by the woeful winds and scattered to the high heavens, unable to enter the domain of the sky, but floating on the sky's child.Rivers flowing, animals roaring and scurrying, nature revolving, all is in motion... but me. The time, the pen, the soul... escape me, fleeing out of my reach and dancing there, tantalisingly teasing the tips of my fingers. Fluid like mercury, molten metal, my hand closed around