ManalinRebel
09-27-2003, 02:55 AM
I know, it's pretty short, but for once I tried to finish a piece in one sitting. Not revised besides spelling either. But it was inspired by A Lighthouse's Tale So I thought some of you might find it interesting- I could only wonder what was going through the mind of the keeper after all that, so.... I decided to figure out what the he might have been thinking of. I know it's not a true story or anything, just such a touching song. Oh yes, an dI know the title needs some work...... I'm out
Shattered Light
Torn by time, worn by the purpose of nature. It looms there, amongst the velvet sky, hued with a golden purple, majestic until the coming of the morn; now it was dusk, the time of silent solemn reflection, when the earth seems to teem over with its own florescent aurora of lingering thoughts; enveloped in a somber silence. The sun, sets behind the light house, drifts away- Away from his reach, his fingers wish to graze upon what brings hope, what brings life to the world. His arms strain out through the atmosphere of sunset, which is still and foreboding. His flesh yearns, aches to burn within the sun. Fire. Golden flames. Purity. To die, to fall without the presence of the substance which was once so full of life, to have his ashes drift away in the wind, to have his past burnt, to have his life made pure; absent from this world. Life’s beauty he can only touch and see. He can not feel it; he can not sense it, it is no longer pristine. Man has infected the earth, so to have no existence upon this doomed piece of rock and magna, all suspended in nothing, to be made free by flickering flames of creation and flames of destruction he decides, would be bliss. But the sea lingers before him, below him; waves of treacherous blue throw themselves against the rocks, with no rhythm, only existence. It derides him, urges him, and seduces him, with s of water quaking violently and hypnotically. It would nearly make him vanish completely; not as fire would, but it would swallow him, devour him, store him in its depths, hiding him for eternity. A feckless substitute, but there was no other way. Taking his hands down, curling them in, letting them wilt and wither after one last desperate reach, he gazes out towards the ocean, then towards the sun, and then the lighthouse, whose railing he is perched on, swaying in the stillness. It’s light, once full of life, had rusted over time, and a final bitter wind from twilight’s storm had shattered it, and the light; the life had scattered amongst reflections of emptiness, been lost amongst the shards of glass. He was the lighthouse, rusted by the presence of love, and shattered by its passing. How strange, how ironic, that the same storm that broken the inner essence of the lighthouse, had taken away what had made him soft and vulnerable, and in doing so, destroyed his soul. Lights no more, darkness upon a night sky; he was nothing. They are empty and without purpose. He, however, can let his thoughts weave, and has choice. A choice, a decision, must be made. Fate, or mistake, destiny or coincidence, he either will perish, or be poisoned from the inside, until he cannot walk, or move, or think. Death in death. Or death in life. He has already begun to pass, his mind is shadowed; the final rays from the sun above do not enter him; they reflect, yet he can still feel the warmth, which makes him pine. A final tear moves down his cheek, punctuating. Ending. It falls longingly from his chin, and collapses amongst the pavement. There is no more. No words, no thoughts, no anger, no sadness, only a single tear, and with it carries what is left within him. Nothing now, not even fear. He does not jump from the railing, he does not run, he does not dive. He merely falls, limp, numb. AS the blurred colors swirl without meaning around him, the air snapping viciously at his face, billowing his clothes as if in a futile attempt to hold him up; to convince him that he may still live, and give him reason to, his eyes, gray and cold, set upon the patch of uneven sand; a body buried crudely under grains of white, pure as what they surround. It was her. The storm had taken her, and the ocean refused to devour her as it did the ship which had been cast into the depths. He had wished she had stayed there, her body was what had destroyed him; to wonder, to hope, was better than to see her lifeless lips, and kiss them, and taste the cold, how they were of nothing how they were of a soulless body. She had taken his heart with her; their souls were both gone in an instant. His eyes still blankly stare at the mound of nothing, as he hits the water and the rocks. To be stripped of nothing was what he sought, and he dies amongst the tide for this reason; and the light house, full of the absence which had pushed its keeper of its side, its stony face rigid, glared down in envy…
Shattered Light
Torn by time, worn by the purpose of nature. It looms there, amongst the velvet sky, hued with a golden purple, majestic until the coming of the morn; now it was dusk, the time of silent solemn reflection, when the earth seems to teem over with its own florescent aurora of lingering thoughts; enveloped in a somber silence. The sun, sets behind the light house, drifts away- Away from his reach, his fingers wish to graze upon what brings hope, what brings life to the world. His arms strain out through the atmosphere of sunset, which is still and foreboding. His flesh yearns, aches to burn within the sun. Fire. Golden flames. Purity. To die, to fall without the presence of the substance which was once so full of life, to have his ashes drift away in the wind, to have his past burnt, to have his life made pure; absent from this world. Life’s beauty he can only touch and see. He can not feel it; he can not sense it, it is no longer pristine. Man has infected the earth, so to have no existence upon this doomed piece of rock and magna, all suspended in nothing, to be made free by flickering flames of creation and flames of destruction he decides, would be bliss. But the sea lingers before him, below him; waves of treacherous blue throw themselves against the rocks, with no rhythm, only existence. It derides him, urges him, and seduces him, with s of water quaking violently and hypnotically. It would nearly make him vanish completely; not as fire would, but it would swallow him, devour him, store him in its depths, hiding him for eternity. A feckless substitute, but there was no other way. Taking his hands down, curling them in, letting them wilt and wither after one last desperate reach, he gazes out towards the ocean, then towards the sun, and then the lighthouse, whose railing he is perched on, swaying in the stillness. It’s light, once full of life, had rusted over time, and a final bitter wind from twilight’s storm had shattered it, and the light; the life had scattered amongst reflections of emptiness, been lost amongst the shards of glass. He was the lighthouse, rusted by the presence of love, and shattered by its passing. How strange, how ironic, that the same storm that broken the inner essence of the lighthouse, had taken away what had made him soft and vulnerable, and in doing so, destroyed his soul. Lights no more, darkness upon a night sky; he was nothing. They are empty and without purpose. He, however, can let his thoughts weave, and has choice. A choice, a decision, must be made. Fate, or mistake, destiny or coincidence, he either will perish, or be poisoned from the inside, until he cannot walk, or move, or think. Death in death. Or death in life. He has already begun to pass, his mind is shadowed; the final rays from the sun above do not enter him; they reflect, yet he can still feel the warmth, which makes him pine. A final tear moves down his cheek, punctuating. Ending. It falls longingly from his chin, and collapses amongst the pavement. There is no more. No words, no thoughts, no anger, no sadness, only a single tear, and with it carries what is left within him. Nothing now, not even fear. He does not jump from the railing, he does not run, he does not dive. He merely falls, limp, numb. AS the blurred colors swirl without meaning around him, the air snapping viciously at his face, billowing his clothes as if in a futile attempt to hold him up; to convince him that he may still live, and give him reason to, his eyes, gray and cold, set upon the patch of uneven sand; a body buried crudely under grains of white, pure as what they surround. It was her. The storm had taken her, and the ocean refused to devour her as it did the ship which had been cast into the depths. He had wished she had stayed there, her body was what had destroyed him; to wonder, to hope, was better than to see her lifeless lips, and kiss them, and taste the cold, how they were of nothing how they were of a soulless body. She had taken his heart with her; their souls were both gone in an instant. His eyes still blankly stare at the mound of nothing, as he hits the water and the rocks. To be stripped of nothing was what he sought, and he dies amongst the tide for this reason; and the light house, full of the absence which had pushed its keeper of its side, its stony face rigid, glared down in envy…