Designs of a Fate-Less Soul by Entitaria, literature
Literature
Designs of a Fate-Less Soul
The interests of the nobles scattered in these streets were mundane, at best.
Of course, she still spent her time selling the odd trinket or two whenever a few interested passer-bys stopped for a moment inside the small antique shop she sometimes worked in, and though they were what she liked to think of as spineless cowards, or fancy swindlers, she still listened in. The odd and the old seemed to attract those with wealth, and sometimes the corrupt too. It was always incredibly easy to spot those who had something to hide. Whispers and hushed tones were always their give away.
She found that she didn't share the same hatred that a few arou
My Dearest,
A heart is like a blank canvas. It sits there, begging for attention. Some people see that canvas, and have to tag it. They graffiti it with mean and hurtful words. The perfection is gone, never to be seen again. Some people will come by and lift your spirits, painting over the tag, but there will always be a trace where it once was, where the white is whiter than the rest, like un-aged wine. But then there are some people who come by and see that blank canvas and think, "I should make that better." They paint an amazing painting, colorful and impermeable to graffiti, for those hurtful words will be minuscule compared to the gran
-if you were to turn her into
a statue, with the lines of
cosmos running through her hair
then,
her eyes would be of cinder
and ash, bottled into glass
travesties. her hand would be
forever more, reaching for
passers-by, trying to whisper
with cracked-and-chapped lips.
(they would breathe in
her wishes, smiling
to themselves, only to turn
and wish her goodbye)-
-her hold is slipping, and the warnings
that she had so carefully handed to her lungs
have crash landed in a jungle somewhere
inside what she thought was her body
(but now she thinks it might have been
her dream-self, warped in reality)
and falling from her hands
are the wishing cards written with
the love of a daring tigress
(not the strange leopard,
with the eyes of a savage panther,
that wanders beneath her pale skin)
and she wonders, restlessly
trying to remember, if she'd been the
one to pen in the ink.
with a sigh, and the closing of her eyes
she finds herself weightless, no sense
of grounding freedom in
-you're forming ice beneath your feet
as you glide across whatever
you can see in this dark abyss,
heading far
away from the star that
you turn around and wave to
with an upturn of the
corner of your mouth,
saluting your shadow
as an afterthought
and it's not until you feel your hand
reach for the glass just millimetres
away from your pale fingertips
that you feel your head touch the desk
where your coffee's grown cold
the pencil you'd held in your hand's
on the floor