2 posts
  • broken_figments_of_imagination 66w

    What a song the world heard that day
    From the winged angels of above.
    And they stood yonder,
    astonished more
    At the melody
    that floated from the lips of finned sirens below,
    Caressing the boy with the utmost care,
    who was conceived of anything but love.

    He was a prodigy
    But they called him the prodigal son.
    Would go on his boat, distributing light,
    Until his life was left with none.
    And while the world was busy covering black sheep with strokes of white
    The rebel child of the earth rose, under the watchful kohl-smeared eyes of night.
    With a promise of making men shiver at the single twist of his vare,
    Tainting the world with the hue of its own corpuscles
    – Such was an oath sworn by the asperous Sinclair.


  • broken_figments_of_imagination 66w

    The withered roses clutched in his cold hands
    Were red, once upon a while,
    As red as the blood that coated his chest,
    Flowing from a gaping wound in his heart,
    The heart that she stabbed over and over,
    Before carving out her name on the still beating organ.
    The rusted dagger had glinted in the moonlight,
    Once, twice, thrice….
    A countless number of times.
    But the glint wasn’t one of hesitancy,
    It shined with the luster of love.
    Or was it something more cynical?
    Obsession, that’s what it was.
    Not a desire, never a necessity.
    But a cacoëtheses.
    An insatiable urge to claim his heart.
    She had fulfilled it too
    For one could ever keep the queen waiting…
    The queen of hearts.
    The queen of hearts, who, on a night that smelled heavily of passion
    Captured his heart, while keeping hers locked
    Snatched it out of its cage
    Claiming it as her own,
    Before walking away with it.
    And perhaps,
    he had called out her name weakly
    for one last time,
    Before coughing up blood.
    And perhaps,
    before every single drop of his blood
    pooled around the scattered rose petals,
    He had opened his eyes for one last time.
    His sub-conscious barely registering the slight flutter of her robe
    that disappeared into the corner,
    Barely making out the flutter of blue silk amidst all the redness.
    The flutter of unattainability within love.
    But nobody lived on to tell their story
    Everybody just deduced the rest.
    Leaving it untouched, this tale of a forgotten history.
    For the queen had disappeared after taking his heart,
    And the king was dead.