This one's for a friend at school, who won't say a word about how she's feeling. She's like a daughter to me. I don't want anything to happen to her, and I seriously hope she'll talk to me soon.
The Seventh
The blood stained his burning hands, red with some unknown omen, yet none was spilled.
He kept some glances away from her: that one spirit, who showed such hollowed content,
For he felt that his place in her life was unneeded. It was not his place to judge or to interfere.
But the benevolent voice within him, that constantly hissed beguiling ache into his pained chest...
A premonition he had, months before, about the spirit. It was perplexing and mystifying,
Yet the message was clear as crystal to him. Something was deafeningly wrong in her. He sensed it.
He didn’t breathe word of it to anyone because all was well. And what he saw surely wouldn’t be what they see.
When he cast his eye upon the spirit now, he could sense it again. But he said nothing. Nothing at all.
One fortnight came to pass. The horrid sense became overwhelming after such time, but he stayed silent to it.
And so did she. Nothing of her condition escaped her voice, but he wanted to know. It killed him inside.
On a chanced night, his mind drifted off towards her. It was obvious. Her soul was being twisted badly;
Perhaps by forces unknown and unseen, but still in existence. But how to vanquish such a force...?
The day after, she had gone from his sight. She returned to view, her face reddened and damp,
Only to depart at once. Those around him spoke something of her self-mutilation. Of her self-torture.
He did not. What strangled his heart at its epicenter was simply her; the cloak of counterfeit gladness
On her face was ripped apart, thread by thread, and what he beheld was a bitter dejection on her beauty.
He clutched at his chest, trying to conceal his inner pain. This sensation had never chained down his will like this.
The spirit returned, another smile pinned to her lips, and sat with the lot of them, seeming as ordinary as possible.
* * * * *
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A Silent Angel's Lullaby
The beautiful serenades of an angel, silenced by the binding chains of the almighty wrath of God. His rebellious acts towards Heaven's serenity flow through his voice and compel the malevolence within him to surface.
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In Soviet Russia, you run computer!
With Windows Vista, computer runs you!
- Lacework -
February 26, 2008
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