Which came first ?

The soul or the body ?

Like rocks ,

those are our souls .

They have a shape ,

each unique to one's own .

Carried by the wind ,

drifting in sea ,

we move ,

change .

After tumbling ,

rolling ,

day in , day out .

Souls , will they be smoothed ?

or

shitted on ,

stepped on ,

pressured ,

till they break .

Souls ,

when forced to change ,

like rocks ,

they break ,

crumble ,

and will never be the same .

You can glue the rock back together however you want .

But pieces ,

those tiny little pieces ,

pesky little fellas ,

dust if you may ,

catch them all ?

Impossible it is .

Once gone always forgotten .

You forget the person you once were .

The soul you once had .

And cracks ,

thin may they be ,

Small are they really ?

Permanently they will stay .

Slowly but surely becoming bigger .

Erosion if you may .

Scars don't just dissappear you know ?

But some rocks flower under pressure .

They turn into crystals instead .

Lucky or unlucky ,

this is the game we play .

The body ,

as complicated it may be ,

is just a mannequin ,

moldable they are ,

jelly , it may seem .

For souls to dress up in ,

'live' in ,

then rot ,

deflate .

Who can survive the longest ?

they say .

Who says ?

I don't know .

I'm not exactly thinking about this .

Do you get what I mean ?

The walls have always had it

The mold, the heaving dark mass

Silently, insidiously poisoning the air and rotting the wood

Of the room I live in, the one I never leave

It leaks into the carpet

Staining the walls from the inside out like spilled black ink

Breathing leaves a bitter taste

And makes the inside of my throat feel coated with illness and spores

It whispers as it creeps closer to me

Where I lay in the centre of the room

The world outside these walls is poisoned, coated in a thick black fog of decay and suffering

The inside is just as filthy

But mushrooms grow in my throat and I lay still

It murmurs soft sentiment

The walls are encased in the writhing darkness

A disease that has crawled its way up

From a place deep in the earth

The mold reaches my body on the floor

Creeps into my ears

Nestles into my eyes

My vision is dancing black spots

And in my ears I hear it talking

I know where this ends

I know I have to stand up

My heart still beats, my muscles work

But in my lungs are growing splotches of black fungus

And my mind is a hive, a clamour of voices

There’s a quiet voice telling me to get up, get up, run away

But I don’t

I don’t move

I don’t move

And the softly singing shadow that slithered its way into my mind has risen to a scream

The eternal hum of the universe has twisted into a choir of cruel and Godly voices, shouting, shouting

I take up hardly any space at all, and yet I have failed to justify my place

Who I am is not enough to carry the weight of my consciousness

And so this mold decomposes me and I am thankful for it

Once I’m dirt maybe I’ll be worth something

Once I’m dirt maybe I can rest

Who could refuse such an offer?

there was a time when he’d

fear nothing more

than the bluntness of the

empty bottle

his torment

his nightmare, his hell

The bottle would be

all right as long as it stayed full

It was like Lucifer before the fall

Oh, but once it emptied

then it would change completely

Then he’d see father’s grip

reverse on its neck

and turn it into a blunt weapon

that delivered its fair share

of bruises and scabs on the scalp

It never broke

like in the movies

but it surely hit harder than wood

But in the end

after all those years of standing

in its greenish shadow

he found himself thanking the bottle

It’s simple

What you don’t pick up

you don’t end up holding

He never touched a beer in his life

and certainly didn’t use

the bottle as a blunt weapon

against anybody

not even against his own father

as revenge

The cleaver was far

more effective

***

HEAR ME READ IT:

https://bogdandragos.com/2021/02/26/a-blunt-weapon/

lily white hopes

midnight shy smiles

and afternoon deceptions

i look forward to the tilt

to the blush and surprise

because it’s what i never thought

i take things slow

i grow slow and i need time

but i promise i cherish every moment

so similar and so different

it’s so curious and so unexpected

it comes at it’s own pace

Tonight the stars wink at each other

While the ocean rolls around

Restless and waiting for

Something dramatic to happen

Above the blue-gray waters

Sits a grandmotherly moon, casting her light

On the ocean and the line of trees far away

Suddenly clouds chase each other

The sky darkens to a charcoal gray

And the waves swell agitatedly

Thunder growls, calling for rain to come

Flashes of lightning decorate the sky

While the pouring rain

Half-drowns the island

Soon the rain turns to a drizzle

The sea finally calms down

And somewhere above

The moonlight creates a rainbow

The Queen of the Forest only had one rule: Do not consider any word spoken or written by the King of the Sea.

Before the Great Shattering - before Aelementa - there were no Kingdoms. The Forest, the Sea, the Desert, the Mountain, the Swamp, the Jungle, the Plain, the Island - all were but one, and that one realm was Aetheria. Ghondaliah - Goddess of Order - ruled supreme. All was in near-perfect harmony until Gaurihe - Demigod of Turbulence - escaped his exhile. He cast a mighty spell and ushered in the Age of Deluge.

The sky bawled lawlessly for 100,000 straight days. The rain bred with the earth, and the Sea was born. Gaurihe initiated another spell and created a 100,000-day storm, ravaging the waters with lightning and thunder, violently sculpting the once-immaculate Aetheria into his own twisted masterpiece, banishing Ghondaliah to what became the Forest.

Satisfied with his deeds, Gaurihe dove to the very depths in that dark cauldron of change he had manifested, spilling and spreading his chaotic seed for eons to come.

She was the colour of loneliness

painted a perfect portrait of emptiness.

she was blank

void of any sense of beauty,

of emotion.

she was cold

a snowy sheet of misery

comforted by death.

she was plain

a simple sheet of paper

just waiting for somone to make her into a book.

she wished she held more than herself

she wished she could be more than nothing

she wished she wasn't left in the pencil crayon box to never be used.

she was the colour of loneliness

the colour that could never be created out of two colours.

I feel the sun, and I think of your eyes. How they warm me to the bone in their desire. I touch the wind, and I think of your skin. How it unfolds in my hands like a weakness. I breathe in the air, and I think of your scent. How it intoxicates me, without safe return to my mind. I've become so lost inside you, I no longer seek the way out.