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The NightMare (standard:poetry, 591 words)
Author: UnsunAdded: Mar 13 2001Views/Reads: 2360/4Story 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.


   


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