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I'm living in an old worn out wooden house and while you enter, you fall short on the burnt smell that ventures through the air. Scrapping and clawing silently, the flames echo at the inner walls. Running across the floor, the heat passes over our existence. The crackle of the fire greets whoever dares to open the door, while visions of fear are planted within their minds. Screams are heard at each corner of each room in the presence of being home. The smell of flesh burning bellows in the wind as eyes await any discharge that they can prey amongst. I sit in the watch of others, in a home that doesn't even exist, but I find a smile pressed upon my face, because at my own state of mind, I"m always home. The warmth holds my thoughts together and ties up any boundaries that grab at my every desire. Holes punture at my skin, and wounds seem to unfold against the soft ground that I force my feet upon. I ache at imagining who dwells below my humble existence, and asks who craves for attention, when attraction is enough to cause the bulls to run? A herd challenges up to a whole mountain, but in the end all that really will ever remain is a tear. One solid tear as clear as the cyrstal sky that vanishes once my eyes focus on its pure form. Each tear that leaves a soul causes a midnight sky of terror, as depression awakens the first flame of tomorrow.
DMagic000
if you are still here,...i guess you are as bored as me, huh? :)
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