Stamped

by Blue_Notebook

 

Their bodies have gone soft, almost in the verge of melting down as if burnt candles. Look! See that one melt with a smile on his face as if folly became he. Rivet your gaze and witness! The melting of a thousand souls in this bright room swarmed by the strongest tempest.

 

What is it that a voice so faded have longed enough to utter? Bear with me for my hearing is clogged with blood coming from the mouth of my thoughts. Ah! Poison you say? Is it indeed poison that a tongue deprived of nudity suffers to howl? Eyes! My dear normality! Eyes must and are meant to stay wide open for such poison to finally take the form of words. Hear now! Say, what is it indeed that they whisper to your senses? Focus! And pray for it not to be, “The reign of coffins.”

 

Light! Painful in the perception of the mad! Extinguish such torturer for they who crawl and they who walk are meant to roam under the hands of darkness. It pains them to be seen and to see. For such spectacle is indeed not for the living nor for the dying. Only those who are in between are given the opportunity to enjoy and peruse the roughened surface of this place. Behold and tense not in the sight of the damned and the chained! It is but a comedy to the blind and a fantasy to the insane. The endless pursuit of the decapitated for the cliff of oblivion, their hands imprinting death on their paths as they strive for wings. But what misfortune it is to find themselves flying with their bones as a parachute! None but I and the others who belong with my category have arrested such sight without any contempt. There is no room for one when we acknowledge the beauty of such exit.

 

The ravens flew with their golden wings as gray hands with dead fingernails draw themselves outward, though chained, to the beckoning voice of a moth. But a moth it is not. For that is my— our, freedom. The only door remaining for us to exit upon. And yet, must I do it, my body must suffer from decapitation too the way the rest of us did. It is true that I have been known as the warrior old. A fighter who battles with life in order to be with my beloved death at all cost. I long for its embrace, for its touch upon my skin, for the thrill of its words as my pieces gather before it. There I will run, naked and free from those shackles. Lift them higher! Ah! Run fast! For life might get you back and the chains might get thicker. And yet such is a vision, a stupor in pity for the rheum my eyes have produced.

 

Phantasms, if given power, can surpass the capabilities of a phantasmagorical event. And I dare but elude the possibility of my being freed and at last, be rid of such lurid place full of cretins. So I reach for more, this time my hands grapple on the chains placed on my aching wrists. Then lo! A crack long and deep, red in tincture, appeared under my arms. Continue! Pull! See the overflowing success as I dissipate from such horrible place. Ah! The sensation of being lifted is overwhelming. Here I have stayed, in this gloomy place inhabited by bleakness. Now I am winning my freedom. Pull! Pull and see from my cracks the redness of my life as it flows towards death amorphous. Drain it all out until I am but a liquid crawling toward my beloved.

 

At last, with one last drop of strength, I pulled my self out of such wounded carcass. No longer am I chained, no longer am I seen, no longer am I suffering. To the caress of death I go, stamped with victory, tired and in need of the abyss endless where I can lay, drifting in its recesses without rue.

 

 

Author’s Note: Credits to the owner of the photo used.