Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
For the first time, the very first time, there is life blooming up in her wake like vernal pools in spring. There are root knots tangled about her horn like chains. Every inch of her seems like a bit of sod on a battle-field, red with blood, and death, and corpses enough to feed a jungle. The crease of her spine in heavy with pollen. Strange birds, half-bone and half-feather, can be seen spreading the ichor of this island garden from wealth of her back. And Thana, brutal and viscous Thana, walks among the horse-tall grass and the moon-flowers, like the beast she has always been.
She hunts like she has been made for this world and the mountains floating above her head are nothing more than stone-faced gods come to pay homage to the monster of their wombs. And if the violet waterfalls roaring in the distance as they crash into the sea are violent, is it any wonder that each tear drop of them are same color as her eyes?
A part of her, that aching part, that love-sick part, is following a trail of moss through the kaleidoscope weeds. It turns to seed as she passes-- black to green, decay to hope. The shadow of a tree stretches long and low around her, like a moon swallowing up the brightness of the sun. It cools the out-of-season sweat from her skin and makes her long for oak, and birch, and golden saplings kissing the line between life and death. And yet, when she spots Ipomoea and the dying flower, Thana forgets that any part of her was aching at all.
It's as easy as it always is, to close the distance between them with the same killing gait she's always moved with. When she touches her nose to his cheek it feels like breathing in death again, like coming home, like submerging herself into the blinding god-water and surfacing only to see something that cannot belong to her. She's almost surprised to pull away to see only pollen dusting the pattern of her touch on his skin instead of claws (and blood, and every grotesque part of her hunger).
Thana wonders if it tastes like gold, or moonlight, or sea-salt. She wonders what it would make of her, to taste the places between them like a wolf tastes the air for the copper sting of blood.
She wonders if she would ever want to hold anything else between her tongue and teeth.
But she doesn't wonder what it makes of her to watch the flower die and think only of Ipomoea and the specks of black dusting his form. And it's the reason she only sees only the kiss of pollen glittering on his cheek while the flower rots.
Thana does not save it even though she could. Perhaps that is the only thing he will ever need to know about her.
Somewhere in the distance, a river falls to the sea violent, and violet, and it sounds like a snarling beast laying teeth against the jugular of a lamb.
@Ipomoea
"Speaking."
She hunts like she has been made for this world and the mountains floating above her head are nothing more than stone-faced gods come to pay homage to the monster of their wombs. And if the violet waterfalls roaring in the distance as they crash into the sea are violent, is it any wonder that each tear drop of them are same color as her eyes?
A part of her, that aching part, that love-sick part, is following a trail of moss through the kaleidoscope weeds. It turns to seed as she passes-- black to green, decay to hope. The shadow of a tree stretches long and low around her, like a moon swallowing up the brightness of the sun. It cools the out-of-season sweat from her skin and makes her long for oak, and birch, and golden saplings kissing the line between life and death. And yet, when she spots Ipomoea and the dying flower, Thana forgets that any part of her was aching at all.
It's as easy as it always is, to close the distance between them with the same killing gait she's always moved with. When she touches her nose to his cheek it feels like breathing in death again, like coming home, like submerging herself into the blinding god-water and surfacing only to see something that cannot belong to her. She's almost surprised to pull away to see only pollen dusting the pattern of her touch on his skin instead of claws (and blood, and every grotesque part of her hunger).
Thana wonders if it tastes like gold, or moonlight, or sea-salt. She wonders what it would make of her, to taste the places between them like a wolf tastes the air for the copper sting of blood.
She wonders if she would ever want to hold anything else between her tongue and teeth.
But she doesn't wonder what it makes of her to watch the flower die and think only of Ipomoea and the specks of black dusting his form. And it's the reason she only sees only the kiss of pollen glittering on his cheek while the flower rots.
Thana does not save it even though she could. Perhaps that is the only thing he will ever need to know about her.
Somewhere in the distance, a river falls to the sea violent, and violet, and it sounds like a snarling beast laying teeth against the jugular of a lamb.
@Ipomoea
