"The saying, 'Forswear it so,' when it comes to lovers," said Shakespeare, "tells that you have been forced by divine hand to wear the love as if sewn into your spirit, into the fabric of whom you are. That because of you love, whatever fate and chance bring, you are forced to wear it, to bare it, to become the fabric of love, the thread and the needle. The angel-witches, I am told, hear it as 'force we (h)ear right sew."
Against the dark night sky all Steve could see was the crumbling walls that were nothing more than a ghostly silhouette of some previous existence. The wind whistled through the trees bringing with it the laughter of children who once lived there and the caring call of a mother letting them know dinner was ready.
Vividly he could picture his childhood. The walls didn’t seem so grey when he was only a boy, nor did they seem so small. In his mind he pictured this place as though it were a castle where he and his brother were the Princes. His mother and father would glide through the once pristine halls, the King and Queen of their kingdom. He felt like no time had passed since he moved from this house, yet as he gazed upon the overgrown bushes and the shattered windows it was evident just how wrong he was.
For the apocalyptic battles the 'Ancient of Days' sent in the dark horse angel. With so many guns and one pen, one voice of heaven to light up the world, staying hidden until victory was possible was all part of the plan. Saving the world was always going to go to the wire, to the "why her?" Until there was trust, love and faith in her, heaven kept her in her pen, her stable, the door both open and closed.
Tears rolled down, wetting every part of her cheek. Her eyes pleaded for Succor and help, albeit that she knew no one was coming. There was only darkness as her own demons haunted and strangled her. She was suffocating. In the pain of abandonment she almost forgot how to feel. She desired amnesia so that all this suffering could fade away, fade and allow memories of laughter to soothe her, to restore peace in her life.
A derelict house stood before me, repugnant and mouldy. Only fear anchored my feet in the darkness. An immense storm could be heard in the distance, echoing through the silent night. Lighting ripped the inky sky. The silver hues of clouds became as molten silver, swirling, ripples radiating. I crept to the paint-crumbling door amid low struggling trees.
I twisted the handle of the door, it creaked, the sound becoming whispers that filled the room, urging me to run lest I end up as lost and lonely as they. One moment I was outside, the next I was within, despite never taking a step. The door slammed. There was no exit. The floorboards moaned with age. Suddenly something tugged at me, something with a icy grip...
The words I compose come from my heart. My stories define who I am and my poems tell of how I feel. My pencil is my paint brush and this blank page is my canvas; when I start painting it is a masterpiece because it holds my ambitions, my passions and my dreams.