Post by Deimian Kyrikk on Dec 30, 2019 20:18:41 GMT -8
Beneath the gray skies of 259, a war raged, intangible. Ghostly rifle and canons fired, creating thunderous booms that race across the sky and through the air. The sky itself cried mournful tears, knowing it was unable to stop the spectral battle.
It was this storm that lead Deimian to find the nearest shelter in the ghost town he walked through. Though an inconvenience at first, the young man quickly found wonder in the happenstance. Following a few tap-taps of his cane here and there, he realized he had stumbled into a deserted theatre. Thunder's rude interruptions are quite the nuisance to one who seeks to echolocate, but the blind man was victorious nonetheless. The realization of his location pulled his expression into a grin.
“Hello?” his English accent echoed in the empty place. No other voice did he hear after the call. With a careless air about him, he wandered down the aisle, his hand slipping across each chair. Their texture was somewhere between soft and course, plush and firm; they were the type of chair that upon resting in it the sitter might have an hour before it begins to grow in uncomfortability.
The thuds of Deimian's cane hitting the floor were coming back to him rather swiftly, giving the man the inclination that he might be approaching the steps. A couple steps further and a wooden interruption to the reaching out of his cane confirmed his theory. After a little effort, he brought himself to the surface of the stage, and embraced the open-aired freedom it brought. He rested in it, bathed in it. He imagined in front of him a crowd of listening Aedrians, all eagerly awaiting to be spoken to.
As the moment drew to a close, he searched the stage with his cane and both feet. This venture brought him a stool, and long stands that would have held something at their end. It was difficult to be sure. Wires, various screws, and some broken glass were also among the many objects that he had discovered, though none served him use for now. Thus, he only found purpose for the stool, which he placed in the middle of the stage. He then proceeded to perch himself atop it and, after a silent moment, take a deep breath in. And as his lungs released the captive air, his delicate words began to pour.
“The poet plucks so caref’ly words
Those things that man does squander
Yet rhymes cannot describe my life
Despite how long the ponder
My life… not all… not now, not the morrow
But the mind and heart that wander
Through me, in me, around me, before me
Casting history yonder.
What lie hides when one defines
That false word, history
What it describes is not only behind
But ahead with misery.
For history occurs once, perhaps twice
If wisdom is casted out
But within the realm of the human mind
The scene is ever acted out.”
At the poem's close, his two fingers gently arose to meet with the bandanna that covered his unsightly eyes.
It was this storm that lead Deimian to find the nearest shelter in the ghost town he walked through. Though an inconvenience at first, the young man quickly found wonder in the happenstance. Following a few tap-taps of his cane here and there, he realized he had stumbled into a deserted theatre. Thunder's rude interruptions are quite the nuisance to one who seeks to echolocate, but the blind man was victorious nonetheless. The realization of his location pulled his expression into a grin.
“Hello?” his English accent echoed in the empty place. No other voice did he hear after the call. With a careless air about him, he wandered down the aisle, his hand slipping across each chair. Their texture was somewhere between soft and course, plush and firm; they were the type of chair that upon resting in it the sitter might have an hour before it begins to grow in uncomfortability.
The thuds of Deimian's cane hitting the floor were coming back to him rather swiftly, giving the man the inclination that he might be approaching the steps. A couple steps further and a wooden interruption to the reaching out of his cane confirmed his theory. After a little effort, he brought himself to the surface of the stage, and embraced the open-aired freedom it brought. He rested in it, bathed in it. He imagined in front of him a crowd of listening Aedrians, all eagerly awaiting to be spoken to.
As the moment drew to a close, he searched the stage with his cane and both feet. This venture brought him a stool, and long stands that would have held something at their end. It was difficult to be sure. Wires, various screws, and some broken glass were also among the many objects that he had discovered, though none served him use for now. Thus, he only found purpose for the stool, which he placed in the middle of the stage. He then proceeded to perch himself atop it and, after a silent moment, take a deep breath in. And as his lungs released the captive air, his delicate words began to pour.
“The poet plucks so caref’ly words
Those things that man does squander
Yet rhymes cannot describe my life
Despite how long the ponder
My life… not all… not now, not the morrow
But the mind and heart that wander
Through me, in me, around me, before me
Casting history yonder.
What lie hides when one defines
That false word, history
What it describes is not only behind
But ahead with misery.
For history occurs once, perhaps twice
If wisdom is casted out
But within the realm of the human mind
The scene is ever acted out.”
At the poem's close, his two fingers gently arose to meet with the bandanna that covered his unsightly eyes.
