Wildflowers for Eyes

Κανένα σπουδαίο μυαλό δεν υπήρξε ποτέ χωρίς μια νότα τρέλας

“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”

’Everyone in this forgotten town believed the way to achieve immortality was to have their names written down.

But not just by anyone.

Only the hand of a poet could determine your immortality.

Men traveled over the land, in search of a poet;

So they could boast of their fame, and good deeds.

But the poet’s paper stayed empty,

The poet spoke slow and clear, for his words were for all to hear;

“These stories do not tempt me.”

Fergus put his pen down, he looked down at the small excerpt he had written for a story. Pondering momentarily with his worn and calloused hands stroking the snowy white beard; his eyes crinkled slightly as he built a whole new world in his head. A few moments passed and he slowly picked up his pen, and dipped it in the ink, and continued on just as he was before. He wrote on and on as he drifted farther and farther from reality, from this world. Fergus was no longer a being of earth, but one of a different dimension.

A different world, one that he had created.

In this world the church bells never stop ringing,

A world where if you listen closely you can hear the dead singing,

'Is it to late to ask for forgiveness,

The man upstairs is our only witness and he doesn't sympathize'

Fergus recognized this world as his own creation.

His creation where everybody falls apart when it gets dark.

Where the buisness men step over bodies,

and the children are playing with ashes instead of poppies.

All of the characters were here in the land that he created with a pen and some paper.

All but one.

The poet.

Fergus had taken his role,

Determing who lives forever and who is forgotten.

Red roses filled the streets, as Fergus looked around at the chaos that ensued.

Ashes fell from the sky on this dreadful day,

While bodies all around were starting to decay.

And in the middle of it all a woman layed; on the soot colored streets, her hands tied with stems from roses, the thorns cutting into her pale flesh.

The womans body was bloodied and torn,

And in place of her eyes were roses, wildflowers and thorns.

Fergus’s father had always told him,

“A little bit of madness goes a long way, but just enough can make something beautiful.”

Fergus never made it back to reality.

He was found with stems tying his hands together and thorns in his hands.

And he had beautiful roses and wildflowers for eyes.

His pen was shoved down his throat along with a note.

'All of the greatest writers fall apart when it gets dark,

Their minds running uncontrollably.

In their work piece by piece you will discover dishonesty.

We are just puppest on strings

Fueled on the lack of creativity

Here, I find myself in this world I have created telling another poets story, all the while the roses thorns bind my hands and punturce my lungs.

But I regret nothing,

In fact I embrace it.

Here with me the greatest man who has achieve immortality, who has been trapped in a story forever in a time, he has told me “That no great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”'