An Untitled ConfrontationA friend and I were having our usual discussion of Loki one late night when she asked me, what would happen if Loki were to appear on my bed out-of-the-blue and question me on my little synopsis that I had previously written about him. This thought inspired the following:
Blue irises? No green beryl, with flashes of cutting intent
" So this is where my, inquisitor, lies her unguarded head." Voiced the eyes as a rich ivy green nebula, coveted and dripped over the seat of a once dull grey sofa bed.
He came in uniform. Too bad. Cassandra would've loved at least a photograph of that voguish scarf of his if he had popped up in pretense... Inquisitor?
His waxen lips creased slightly with a salty greeting, " Leah." whilst faintly cradling his scepter that stood erect on his right, against the dark wooden floor of the unkempt master bedroom.
Mirth wrestled watc
UniquenessOver the ages, society has surely preserved many immortal traits, one of them being the uniqueness of an individual. Be it physicality, a skill, habit or even a disorder, something has always been likely distinguished in a person. Yet it is not uniqueness that is recognized but impairment, an imperfection. And imperfection is not something that is unique but purely a shared difference.
Uniqueness is absolute ground zero. It is originality. It is a thing of the ancient days that has been lost through evolution and revolution of the human psyche. The only candidates of such a rarity now are ethereal dreams, fantasies, ideas and life forms that are hidden from the naked eye and are abstract to the human perception. Uniqueness is a conceptual lie preached like a virus by a society that stands firm in its belief that "every person is like a snowflake". Whatever "unique" desires we have discovered for ourselves, we were trained to do so. These desires in turn, become invalid excus
Requiem, KyrieTaut, lost hands rose to his face,
As wode woes flared magnified, this hour;
His hands, bled to his neck, debase,
Memoirs from a breath of his voice turned sour;
" My dearest She She is there
In my mind's eye, in a thought's reach,
My bones canst no more bear
To hearken of my reverie's speech."
Thralled knees bowed, suckling rosewood rust;
His heart lived shrieking enshrouded,
Within his forsaken bosom crust;
Unto an enduring damnable ballad
As vampiric sorrows plagued the caving air,
His walls succumbed to his quivers;
His chambers yielded t'ward throes declared,
Years of transcribed romance reduced to cinders;
The last strained droplets of tears,
Begun to choke his eyes of blinding passion;
For as the life of his corpse leaked of past fears,
The spirit of his soul became unquenchably christened.