THE IRON HEART
Running.
I am running. And it is behind me, giving chase, billowing in its magenta shades and gossamer pulchritude.
I am running, in a thudding wood, a dying wood. I am running because to stand is to be caught.
I am not looking back. I can hear only the tinkling of life underneath, and Novembral breath as it charges past. I see only obscure contours hurtling by; fair palates that capture so much more than the little deaths they betray. There is awe in sight, there is wonder in sound, and in the thundering that is my heartbeat, keeping pace & rhythm with the strides I take.
I am traveling, away from it. To look back is to yield the apostasy I have strove for, the fortification I know. An iron heart.
Running, so far in. Refusing a backward glimpse. And what is more fearsome: that what is following is really following, or not there at all...
For who could want this fragmented frame? Who would try their alchemy on an iron heart, and who would melt it down? Who would contend to handle the splinters, of all that I am, and all I will be?
Is it a dream I am running in, to a Tree of Life, without limbs? What sleight of hand could make me believe, that any hands would wish to carry me?
And the flaxen shapes, golden before, cast over with ripples of impending nothingness. I can't let it in.
I am running, I am weeping, I am parts becoming none. I am running, I am weary, I am used, I am none. I am iron and I cannot let it get me. (Please let it get me.)
-CaS 11.04.2015 09.00PM
-CaS 11.04.2015 09.00PM
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