Post by Aurora on Jan 3, 2021 22:58:06 GMT
sleep now in the fire
the cost of my desire
the cost of my desire
Arawn feels his heart eating both dream and reality. His body, kissed by the fire-glow, draws nearer to the girl. Between the shadows, and amber curtains of gilded flames, the world around him drifts into hazy obscurity. He hears the night whispering against his ear. They bring secrets with each hidden caress. The night holds memories of his past lives.
He feels it in the weight of its surrender. He feels the twilight caress his flesh, like the lips of an immortal god. The wind sighs, breathes through his disheveled mane; dragging branches like nails down his spine, as they rake with a passion against his skin. The evening unfolds into whispers made of roaring, amber flame and sacred flesh, like holy sacraments unrooted from a tomb.
Tonight, there is a storm raging in his soul, and a million other whispers, that grip his damned heart, tearing him asunder with their wicked religion. Even when the people sway and dance to the rhythm of nature's violence, nature's melody, Arawn does not need to touch her, to know, to imagine, to feel—the taste of her lips against his own. He can imagine tasting her soul, as the breeze clings to her long, silken hair; as the zephyr brings her scent to him like the cloying fingertips of a sultry hurricane.
He can feel the soft, elegant wash of her gold-kissed skin brushing their angelic feathers next to his devil's form. He can taste her on the dream. Her perfume, permeating with the heat, flame and wine. Already he feels the alcohol swimming in his blood. Already memories pour through his mind. Rancuous firelight plays along her skin. Shadows paint their stories along her features. When he sees her, standing beneath the moonlight, amidst the dancing horses, it's in the bone-white glow of her skin that he finds redemption. "Alone is no fun."
He feels it in the weight of its surrender. He feels the twilight caress his flesh, like the lips of an immortal god. The wind sighs, breathes through his disheveled mane; dragging branches like nails down his spine, as they rake with a passion against his skin. The evening unfolds into whispers made of roaring, amber flame and sacred flesh, like holy sacraments unrooted from a tomb.
Tonight, there is a storm raging in his soul, and a million other whispers, that grip his damned heart, tearing him asunder with their wicked religion. Even when the people sway and dance to the rhythm of nature's violence, nature's melody, Arawn does not need to touch her, to know, to imagine, to feel—the taste of her lips against his own. He can imagine tasting her soul, as the breeze clings to her long, silken hair; as the zephyr brings her scent to him like the cloying fingertips of a sultry hurricane.
He can feel the soft, elegant wash of her gold-kissed skin brushing their angelic feathers next to his devil's form. He can taste her on the dream. Her perfume, permeating with the heat, flame and wine. Already he feels the alcohol swimming in his blood. Already memories pour through his mind. Rancuous firelight plays along her skin. Shadows paint their stories along her features. When he sees her, standing beneath the moonlight, amidst the dancing horses, it's in the bone-white glow of her skin that he finds redemption. "Alone is no fun."
do i still taste of war. can you feel the battles on my skin stitched across my back. am i still rebuilding bone by fragile bone
