Submission (#75) Approved
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Submitted
10 March 2024, 19:49:42 CET (8 months ago)
Processed
15 March 2024, 13:43:58 CET (7 months ago) by Licht
Comments
“ When it is evening, you say, "It will be fair weather; for the sky is red."
"And in the morning, "It will be stormy today, for the sky is red and threatening."
You know how to discern the appearance of the sky, but are you unable to discern the signs of the times? ”
Why is it that red is the color of love, when pink is right there? Are the skies bleeding love when the dust fills the airy lungs and calls for a scarlet siege? Is it love for the color to prey upon the clouds when the land below is walked on by people consumed by their shadows? Love, as it is stupidly written to be, should be the last thing seen before the world is engulfed. It should be the thing keeping one from the brightness of day, it is the barrier keeping people from their fulfilled lives. It greets, it passes, it comes again and every time it should be staved off, it nags.
Love?
Perhaps she hates how bleak her opal reflects in such a low glow. Life would be manageable to be oh so enchanted by herself, but gluey tenderness made her glean the cracks with a skewed frame of mind. Yet the mind could not be as open as the chest.
She was beautiful before, too, wasn’t she? Rocks have the right to argue otherwise, but how would it know what’s good from bad anyway? Her pebbles wouldn’t know it, but they are on her side, they’re smooth. Respectfully so.
Respectfully, sunsets if they, without fail, were pink, purple, and orange, would’ve been in the running for Genevieve as a time most admired, as would sunrises with colors to wake the dawn. But the damned red is too consistent for her to embrace it wholly.
She would much rather sleep past it or keep beneath the surface until it washes over, until the heat calls her up from her muck blanket.
The rise and fall are tarnished by an aching experience. A thousand broken hearts over a thousand years of hers could have iced the bruise.
Harsh lines upon each shadow, egging on the visible surface to rise for its return below; the rim is the first to be grounded again, all to cushion the half that comes, and to relinquish the more deficient part to a fate of languishing gradience.
Where are the signs of love now?
"And in the morning, "It will be stormy today, for the sky is red and threatening."
You know how to discern the appearance of the sky, but are you unable to discern the signs of the times? ”
Why is it that red is the color of love, when pink is right there? Are the skies bleeding love when the dust fills the airy lungs and calls for a scarlet siege? Is it love for the color to prey upon the clouds when the land below is walked on by people consumed by their shadows? Love, as it is stupidly written to be, should be the last thing seen before the world is engulfed. It should be the thing keeping one from the brightness of day, it is the barrier keeping people from their fulfilled lives. It greets, it passes, it comes again and every time it should be staved off, it nags.
Love?
Perhaps she hates how bleak her opal reflects in such a low glow. Life would be manageable to be oh so enchanted by herself, but gluey tenderness made her glean the cracks with a skewed frame of mind. Yet the mind could not be as open as the chest.
She was beautiful before, too, wasn’t she? Rocks have the right to argue otherwise, but how would it know what’s good from bad anyway? Her pebbles wouldn’t know it, but they are on her side, they’re smooth. Respectfully so.
Respectfully, sunsets if they, without fail, were pink, purple, and orange, would’ve been in the running for Genevieve as a time most admired, as would sunrises with colors to wake the dawn. But the damned red is too consistent for her to embrace it wholly.
She would much rather sleep past it or keep beneath the surface until it washes over, until the heat calls her up from her muck blanket.
The rise and fall are tarnished by an aching experience. A thousand broken hearts over a thousand years of hers could have iced the bruise.
Harsh lines upon each shadow, egging on the visible surface to rise for its return below; the rim is the first to be grounded again, all to cushion the half that comes, and to relinquish the more deficient part to a fate of languishing gradience.
Where are the signs of love now?
Rewards
| Reward | Amount |
|---|---|
| Cinder | 350 |
Characters
MYO-007: Genevieve
No rewards set.