The Dying ThroneA dead man lays his head to restacross a withered wooden grainsitting royally atop his thronehead back observing his court.His wrists bestowed with leatherHis belts buckled to the tightand the tarnished silver gleamingresting snug to his cadaver.A restless maid bathes his haira sponge rests atop his wet headwhile his crown is nestled neatthe man relaxes in the bed, proper.His eager subjects gather 'round.An excited chatter and crowd circle,the man waves farewell triumphantly,a last smile: electricity applied.
The Latent AddictionThat I sit here nightlywishing for a square, a red embered testamentof addiction, the dead whole.Why I should want distastefullya compounded distraction?One that I know you would hate.Only I sit and suffer that;your ghostly imprinted hands.We are the wanting, fearfully.I dread my desire,I wish for my inadequacy,I wish to be a shadow in your light.Why do we crave being hated?How do we survive ourselves?Damnabley a fiddle wails,Wallowing in its cacophic soundThe Violinist has not his own esteem.That I sit here nightlywondering about a cigarette,something of which I swore off of,remembering the taste of
*hugs Sevy*
Erik, Nicholai, and Severus: MMMMmmph mh mmmmp fhelp uuussssph!!
Me: *Adds more duct-tape* No, they'll definitely never leave me *tightens ropes* Hehe, I may be persuaded to share
seriously, it's probably a bit extreme how some of us get into book characters, but I think it's harmless and keeps the imagination healthy ^_^
Thanks for the fave as well!