|The NightMare (standard:poetry, 591 words)|
|Author: Unsun||Added: Mar 13 2001||Views/Reads: 2328/3||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|read me and enjoy, hopefully|
The NightMare " Have you seen the NightMare?" Asked the hour glass eyed stranger, who long ago had succumbed to his own wanderlust. Tired, worn and emaciated, he couldn't be happier. His blue eyes sparkling with hope, tears and wonderment. His tears are a bittersweet mixture. The tears of a man who has a reason to live, but not a very good one. His blonde hair which must once have been fine and delicate. Stray filaments of fine spun gold must have once framed his face, which too at one time must have been fuller. Before he became the emaciated man before me. "I have seen beads of dew clinging hard to blades of green. Individual drops singing in violent nectarine tones, colored by ragnarok's fading light, golden with the death of Helios. I have seen wands of gold and silver twisting in serpentine patterns. Wands of crystal and ambrosia, of magic and life, of night and day, of mirrors and windows, which men gave their lives for in vain. I have seen gowns of silk so fine that the weavers of fate themselves threw down their thread and stalked off fuming. I have witnessed the dawn of time over crimson and auric spires. Spires which stood straight and tall in spite of the weight of their destinies. Liquid gold spheres that reflect the void that the world would become. I have witnessed the birth and death of worlds, gods, myths, legends and all manner of mortal men. But I have not seen the NightMare" I replied. A touch of melancholy in my voice, sadness at my fractional experience of the world. "YOU HAVE NOT LIVED!!" howled the wild haired stranger. The winds of time and fate and purpose whipping about his form, in a maelstrom. Hot tears pouring from his hour glass eyes in sympathetic agony towards one who had not lived. " You have not seen the NightMare. With its coal black hair. A trillion latent tentacles of oblivion, clinging smoothly to it's smoking ebony side. The sable filaments sucking in the light, spiraling away to nothing. It's eyes fiery orange, fueled by the souls of frightened children. Their souls were stone till fear of the living NightMare melted them, turned them to magma. A racing hot fluid fertile with the movement of life. Scathing hot stone aflame with movement with energy, with life. It's mane aflame powered by lust for the children's terror. It's nature sucks in heat and so where it trods frost does follow. But even it's natural leech like nature cannot drain a child's soul of energy, of heat, of life. So it walks the dreamscape. It's hooves shiny obsidian, volcanic glass translucent in the half light of dreams. Cloven hooves that spark along the pathways of children's hopes and dreams" So moved was I, by the wild strangers depiction, that I have gone in search of this wonderous NightMare. I have a child with me as bait. One with golden blond hair, spun fine like spiders silk. His face is round with a pointed chin. With carmine lips marked starkedly against pale skin, and rampant blue eyes. My little blue eyed worm on a hook I call him. Each night for months, now, I have told my dear child tales of the NightMare. In hopes that his fears will call to us the radiant NightMare. To capture him, to view it's horrific beauty up close. A child to catch a Nighmare. A child to catch a dream. Even a NightMare is better than nothing. Tweet
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