Post by Cy Skywalker on Jan 6, 2006 8:10:02 GMT -5
He stands at the peak of a storm temple.
My world is burning. It flames on the edges of my vision; not falling into the dark but burning from all sides.
The black cloak laps at his feet, warms his hands, freezes his soul with memory.
Wars piled upon wars. Give them their peace! Let them feel the balance why won’t you!
His head is down, some of his hair caught beneath the folded cowl of his cloak.
I know. But people still die in all those tiny wars, and our numbers are not growing.
His breathing is even, silent, unnoticable but for the slight movement of his shoulders.
he future...reach...I want to see. Real does not leave happy endings, happy ever after.
He is dressed all in black, with the flesh of his left hand bare, and the silver lightsaber against his leg.
I can’t see. What am I missing, mistaking? Who now has the truth? Gone are the easy definitions.
He looks up calmly, his teeth bared in the slightest reflex half-grimace.
The wind is cold now, when I let it be.
It could be many times, any era. He has let his hair grow long and ragged. For those who can see, shadows fall over his face.
No more hope. No more chances that just slip away, or leave death in their ugly wake.
Here is where it is. Here is where the thought first comes, where the first thought ripples the still water of his mind and his eyes close, a breath of mixed emotion escapes his lips.
The Force flows lonely...
My world is burning. It flames on the edges of my vision; not falling into the dark but burning from all sides.
The black cloak laps at his feet, warms his hands, freezes his soul with memory.
Wars piled upon wars. Give them their peace! Let them feel the balance why won’t you!
His head is down, some of his hair caught beneath the folded cowl of his cloak.
I know. But people still die in all those tiny wars, and our numbers are not growing.
His breathing is even, silent, unnoticable but for the slight movement of his shoulders.
he future...reach...I want to see. Real does not leave happy endings, happy ever after.
He is dressed all in black, with the flesh of his left hand bare, and the silver lightsaber against his leg.
I can’t see. What am I missing, mistaking? Who now has the truth? Gone are the easy definitions.
He looks up calmly, his teeth bared in the slightest reflex half-grimace.
The wind is cold now, when I let it be.
It could be many times, any era. He has let his hair grow long and ragged. For those who can see, shadows fall over his face.
No more hope. No more chances that just slip away, or leave death in their ugly wake.
Here is where it is. Here is where the thought first comes, where the first thought ripples the still water of his mind and his eyes close, a breath of mixed emotion escapes his lips.
The Force flows lonely...