free writing, don't mind it.
I'm a little drunk tonight, and fire rumbles in my veins, these pages etched with chicken wire, passing slowly through your fingertips. The breath of former geniuses fogging up my focus, lost thoughts on foreign papers, buried deeply in their tombs. Will they ever see light again? Will the moment come when mountains crumble and desolate wastelands grow rich with fruits, as wild as our imaginations?
No, alas, those moments have passed, and stories of bitter old women and maladjusted kings will remain restless in their chambers, waiting, perhaps for another artist, brilliant with her stroke, with a light bright enough to reach their withered faces, cold and broken, to unearth them from their shallow graves.
Until then, I will sit with these thoughts, these words, which no one can bring out of me. I will watch as others answer the call, brilliant descriptions of wars won, loves lost, and that delicate balance between passion and death.
No, alas, those moments have passed, and stories of bitter old women and maladjusted kings will remain restless in their chambers, waiting, perhaps for another artist, brilliant with her stroke, with a light bright enough to reach their withered faces, cold and broken, to unearth them from their shallow graves.
Until then, I will sit with these thoughts, these words, which no one can bring out of me. I will watch as others answer the call, brilliant descriptions of wars won, loves lost, and that delicate balance between passion and death.