casteroftroy

[casteroftroy]

I tense against that length of blade that juts from a slit of earth. Clutch the hilt, with which in use that I can finally be coherent. This holy thing that seals the gate to a crypt of knowledge I seek. This holy thing is a sword made from the hallowed floors of the towel of Babel. Ancients dragging their heels, sandals that are covered from a trek's worth of dry dirt just to exchange nonsense in a forum. Curious, why the floors. Why not the walls that caught the echoes, perhaps the windows I wonder? But the floors, I suppose, carried the weight of those souls and expressed itself upward in height. The foundations were the first to fall, thus, the root of it all were the floors.

I wish to wield it. Something in my mind cries a warning that I am far too untrained, but this leap of faith must be leapt. Brave the distance between knowing and not, disband the belief of "can't" and "won't" for if I dream of it, it can be. It, being my future, at the moment not built. Sinking into that vision of a future where I am greater than I ever was, the blade begins to slip

out.

[casteroftroy]

i act in doubles.

cautiously careless.

meekly bold.

distantly loving.

timidly fearless.

- c.

[casteroftroy]

i will fall against the stars

that pull me in

and I will burn, a soul of fire

this is where i begin.

- c.

[casteroftroy]

The sun is lonely, if you really think about it.

Burning in the vastness of space

Casting light on all who stand by.

And in the space between

Are belts of light, weaving, searching,

Reaching out into the void

To find meaning in the familiar dark.

- c.

[casteroftroy]

Here, I stand before a storm at sea.

I love the rain, way the wind blows

The tumultuous water against uneven shore.

An epiphanous moment occurs;

Everything stays, just never the same.

Sand displaced, things change, and yet the world remains.

- c.

[casteroftroy]

The lights burn my eyes.

I know it’s too much, I know it’s too far.

Tonight, I’m in a troubled place; half in and half out of my mind.

I might lose myself in this skyward high.

- c.

[casteroftroy]

it wasn’t his.

(the dress, the heels, the bow. the burning carpet and open window.)

no, it was never his.

(the distant whine. the reddened knees. the twisted spine.)

he didn’t deserve it.

(the ceiling gaze. the loss of feeling. the realization.)

but it happened.

(the scream-torn throat. the errant words: please, don’t want this - )

and he is dirty.

(the marks on his throat. the shocked looks of others.)

and he is broken.

(by then he said: “it’s not like that.” he feels alien, here. ”it was my fault.”)

- c.