Oh of the cold Nights we Spent Gazing at the Moon...
Well...it isn't very good writing...but i'll put it up here anyway...
"With a whisper from the willow, I shall sleep. Carried away into a blanket of dreams. Step into water my Child, and speak to me, the desires which your mind wishes to say. I am here now, and all is safe. You need not fret any longer." Those were the words of the mushroom as it stood vigil. And the damsel sitting on its top, what became of her? She has left, flown for the coast, along with seventy-one other vestal virgins. Her heart pure, the music flowed through her in her flight, but was it all in vain? For no longer is she pure, and no longer shall the blood of the lamb be used in honor of her sacrifice. Sacrificial piety she preaches, and by sacrifice, she shall bleed. With her heart open upon the hard wood table, she shall die, and the mushroom shall melt away, the world, it will crumble. The last petals of the rose shall fall, withered, those that were once blood red. And in a crown of thorns, we shall make our bed by the waterside, and listen to the river sing sweet songs to rock our souls. It’s a far gone lullaby, forgotten long ago, the river twists and turns and the waters roll.
Some say the child is disturbed, but all he does is observe. It is what it is, and that’s all that it is, isn’t strange to be his? Where and when seem to lose their significance as time rolls on in her arms. But when those arms grow cold and hard, none are to gain but pain. Thoughts do wander and time does travel and rarely do people stand still, but as we sit here with no thoughts to bear, I say lets go back to the hill, singing softly, we will surely once again lose track of the time...
"With a whisper from the willow, I shall sleep. Carried away into a blanket of dreams. Step into water my Child, and speak to me, the desires which your mind wishes to say. I am here now, and all is safe. You need not fret any longer." Those were the words of the mushroom as it stood vigil. And the damsel sitting on its top, what became of her? She has left, flown for the coast, along with seventy-one other vestal virgins. Her heart pure, the music flowed through her in her flight, but was it all in vain? For no longer is she pure, and no longer shall the blood of the lamb be used in honor of her sacrifice. Sacrificial piety she preaches, and by sacrifice, she shall bleed. With her heart open upon the hard wood table, she shall die, and the mushroom shall melt away, the world, it will crumble. The last petals of the rose shall fall, withered, those that were once blood red. And in a crown of thorns, we shall make our bed by the waterside, and listen to the river sing sweet songs to rock our souls. It’s a far gone lullaby, forgotten long ago, the river twists and turns and the waters roll.
Some say the child is disturbed, but all he does is observe. It is what it is, and that’s all that it is, isn’t strange to be his? Where and when seem to lose their significance as time rolls on in her arms. But when those arms grow cold and hard, none are to gain but pain. Thoughts do wander and time does travel and rarely do people stand still, but as we sit here with no thoughts to bear, I say lets go back to the hill, singing softly, we will surely once again lose track of the time...