High NotesIf I could play
Sounds through words
I'd be playing them now.
Like the strings of a violin,
I'd awe you
With such smoothness.
Rising on falling under the heat
Of a rigid string.
The horns would stretch their necks,
And howl at the golden chandelier.
It's body so nimble,
Will scream its own tune,
Struggling to be heard,
But heard sorrowfully none the less.
Like the gentlemen they are.
They are the weeping higher power
That all fall upon.
The drums open their mouths,
And doom a broken society.
The symbols clash
And try all rise.
Every corrupted piece.
And fall in harmony.
AIRLESS 'Follow Me' (Chapter One)Chapter One: "Follow Me"
The next four years drove me into a satisfiable madness.
The dirty corners of a broken mirror framed me so well, but the crack in the glass that distorted just the tip of my forehead might have defined me more. Regardless, I bent myself across the wooden sink, and starred. Nothing appeared too highly different since I last glanced upon my weeping self.
My eyes caught the twitching of my thin lips as I worded, but did not speak: "I wish I looked more like you."
Her eyes would bat back at mine, but for only moments did I see my mother in a lost reflection. My mother would never appear as lifeless and drained as I was then. No, she would have been healthy. Yes, she would have been alive. Period.
I could have drowned myself in the thoughts of my destructive past all day, but recently had I developed a hobby to pass the time. (If hobby might have been the correct term to describe my actions.)
I found myself starring back in the mirror, but for different reasons. The
Airless (prologue)"Ayva, don't speak. Stay hidden."
My mother placed me in the closet.
The scent of my fathers clothes swung loosely above me. A box protruded uncomfortably into my backside, but as the confusion rose, the physical pain mattered less.
The collar of her beige shirt fell within grasp. With the natural instinct of a child, I reached for her in panic.
My voice whispered loudly to her: "Please, don't leave me."
She pushed me back, and tugged at my hand for freedom. "Baby, I promise you it will be okay."
With a candle in hand, the glow of my father's silhouette danced frantically in the background of his and my mother's bedroom. I attempted a better look, but I soon found my place back in the floor. My mother shuffled through the mess in the closet, and piled old clothes on top of me that had lost their grip of the hangers above. Agitation took me over, but I allowed them to do what they thought best in the midst of such an enigmas situation.
"Mother, I'm scarred."
A rough quilt toppled on my