From the words he draw from his muse he makes a carriage that pulls me to a place where the sunset stood still on Wednesdays and where flowers smell like buttered popcorn. He paints adventure and triumph with the ink that is his blood, but also composes the saddest hymns of death and defeat. These tales scorch the coldest of hearts and make them weep, for his words were the truth and the truth was inevitable. It was the truth or insanity and I could not tell which is more forgiving.
His stories hit me like a tidal wave that washes away the weariness, but drowns me to the blackest pit of the sea, only to realize that, when my body freezes down at the abyss, his words are to haul me back to dry land. A worn-out puppet I am, but to have him as my master is more than I would ever deserve.
He is strange and enchanted and even if I wanted to I could not escape.
For in his words my being is chained and I have swallowed the key long ago.
To be away from him is to perish an existence with no music.
Or pain.
Or love.
No comments:
Post a Comment