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PENUMBRITE LACRIMITE

"you are created from the tears of forgotten tongues."

Why do you mourn for something that you are not?

It is a question you reserve for yourself in the dead of night, where everyone is asleep and the stars are out, accompanying you and the loud whirring noise that is your thought process. You hum, tones slightly robotic, but it does not waver. You sing an old forgotten lullaby, watching the sky count its hours.

You are created from the tears of forgotten tongues. Given form as the wispy tendrils trace the stars across the worlds, given thoughts as the mouths trace the scars across the words. Blessed with everything and nothing at the same time.

Your face plate clinks against the window glass, as you sit on the crooked sill, slightly dilapidated by time. The mechanical eyes blink, teals wide and staring. The stares shift to the sleeping children, tucked into their blanket, huddled for warmth, and you only stop your singing then, sighing. A house made out of torn down walls, battered woods, and crumbling rooftop. A home created by three outcasts, gathering whatever they could to make it more comfortable. You know this is not going to end well, not for you at least, but you want them to be happy, pursue something in life that is not tragedy.

You want them to chase a satisfying life, a completion, even after you are gone.


And now, upon the burning floor and cracking earth, the teal blinks as slow as a turning clock hand. In the flesh, in the face, in the eyes, and in the voice, this person is truly your son. Whatever part of soul god has given you, you notice that this person is not your son. He is gaudy, boisterous, not reserved, sunny. He tramples all beneath with his sole, never walks amongst them with spring in his steps.

That, you realize, is how a heart capable of withering and dying.

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Pub: 26 Sep 2023 05:59 UTC

Edit: 03 Oct 2023 11:47 UTC

Views: 37