• _rainfrost_ 56w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 5: ������������ ��������������

    I think I've seen this castle standing tall with dignity and pride. A blue fabric rippling over the highest pinnacle, the barbican letting the daylight in, just a holy summer ago. But now it's crumbled by the hands of a bittersweet betrayal. Now its trampled walls and cleaved towers float in a brook of fog. And my voice echoes between these rickles of stones, "Rest in peace, my kingdom and its grace."

    I hang my head low, as I lost the war, with scars and calluses lingering on my skin, like letters of bad memories you don't want to keep. There are cuts on my fingertips, that I got from the thin strings of my twisted fate I was trying to untangle.

    I choose to stare at the ground, where autumn leaves are scattered, where my self-esteem is shattered, where my heart's lying battered. Because the sky is frozen and harbour-grey, like a perfect portrayal of this unclear ending.

    Flavescent trees cover the sad ridges, cursed mist carries the bitter scent of falls. The golden locket, a guerdon from king, is resting on my neck like verglas over withering foliage. My vows left undone are haunting me like calls of every nightmare in my head, turning true.

    I walk through the trees, through the spectral thickets. As my tired footsteps make hollow noises over crunching leaves, I feel myself getting lost, in this dark tale. The eerie cadence of winds running through the gaps between the woods, whisper of something dark, just as dark as the demons beneath my skin. I'm wondering how many times I let my demons run wild. And they hurt you too, don't they?

    I'm locked inside a cold autumn day, in a bittersweet feeling, and this sadness feels like a toast of wine to the dead king. I trudge till I find the darkest part of this book. Through the fog which smells like gunsmoke and regrets, I see a silhouette of a black gate.

    I push the cemetery gate open, with my hands trembling slightly. I sit beside the king's grave, but I have no flowers to offer him, his headstone as cold as my blood. I stare at my empty hands where some words are etched upon it like a sin, "I killed the king."

    I write the last page of this glorious french folktale, which I'll burn down, myself.



    Inspiration: @zohiii :')

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