Night of Dark
Night of Dark
~.~.~
Liquid breathe flowing down my neck
Finding every crevice along its path
Roaming through untamed lands
Every surface touched it commands
~.~.~
I look down at what just flowed from my pen with a disgusted daze right before I tear from the pad in my lap and quickly discard the minute atrocity which was one of many which had begun to infect my creativity, and I have none other to blame but the actions I had taken only a night previous the shadowed moon. Looking up into the scattered twilight consoles my shambled mind but for a moment. Observing her beauty reveals to me only one more dreary night before she reaches her prime. So brilliant she will be as to deter ones eyes even the slightest.
Moments pass and with a hefty sigh I pry myself from the cold green bench and head home. During the short mile walk, using rollerblades to make haste, I ponder over that interesting night. My jocular friend once confided in me 'virginity is like a bubble: one prick, all gone.' As humorous as he was tat moment today I can burrow even more humor from this small diction. A pin-prick is an inaccurate summation of events; a more fitting description would be that of a javelin which gouged the frail skin of said bubble.
Not more than a couple ticks have passed and I find myself on the steps before my dwelling. Well, not my own for I am still fresh in the days of rebellion. Quickly I naked my feet and set aside my familiar choice of transportation. I make it inside the house to settle in the seclusion of my room. Fragrant charred fleshes indulge my scent as I lay upon my mattress and mound of pillows, which were stuffed in the corner of the room. While comforted I take the pencil from my ear and tap it against the yellow pad that rests against my knee. I let a few moments pass to clear the jumbled thoughts, and a thin thread is chosen by my heart. So I write.
~.~.~
Darkness entwines my fingers
And there is a feeling that lingers
In the frosted air
While we have a moment to share
Molten breathe streams down my chest
Claws scraping gentle skin at best
A rhythmic movement to a song unseen
More than a nightful lust may seem
Wolven blood! What have I become?
A demon of the night
Please cure my plight!
~.~.~
I erase and rewrite these terms several times before it begins to take a more coherent shape. Being less than satisfied with what I have allows for me to sing in my head the words which have no rhythm but a double purpose. Again and again I read and re-read, erase and rewrite, until I find it at last satisfying.
~.~.~
Darkness, courses through my fingers
Feelings, stay inside forever lingers
And, within the frosted air
We have another moment to share.
Molten breathe, streaming down my chest
Razored claws, scraping gentle skin at best
Rhythmic movement, a song unseen
This is much more than, a nightful lust may seem
Wolven blood! What have I become?
A cursed demon of the twilight night!
~.~.~
I hum this to myself as a smile is dragged across my face. Now that the pleasing tune is finished I place it on one of the only other furniture which crowds my restricting room: A small bedside shelf with a small clock making residence on the left neighbored by a stack of writings unfinished. Nothing that I contain in my head ever seems to find an end. Why I continue to write is pure mystery and misery especially when others invite themselves for a peep show and lie about its caliber, I assume. Even a cynic would call me humble but that is false. No matter what so-called masterpiece is animated on a line I still find it a mere tyro next to the authors whom I derive inspiration from.
Though I belittle myself there is still a hairline crack in the dam that halts my hands and incentive still flows freely. It's as if someone had meant for me to write and instilled a horrible curse, a compulsion to write when the time is right. And write I will, pages upon pages of words with or without coherence, and I cannot stop the flow until it allows me. So wretched is this work of dark magic that it forces me to write and then discontinue when there is still more to go.
Staring blankly at this yellow pad I can see words dashing across the lines, teasing and taunting me to be swallowed into the abysmal state to face another work of incompletion. Thus again I succumb to the challenge, telling myself this is the time I will find an end no matter how far down I must dig. Once the tip of my shovel touches the damp earth it begins to move apace of its own accord, almost as if it had its own sentient and I was merely an empty shell for it to use as its own. All I can do is watch as the words scribble themselves out before my eyes.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Several nights ago, a slither of the goddess in the sky smiling down upon my solemn form, I find something off-beat around this night. It wasn't as if a fairy tale had consumed my sight or a horror film that induces fright; more likely just a small miracle to peddle away those who are cynical.
Alone I am amid a child's canvas, empty swings rocking gently when kissed by the gentle wind, a green serpent digging its head into the fine sand, a castle that sleeps away this darkness. I had occupied a seat which edged the scene, knees drawn tightly as brackish water stained my red cheeks. Though I would like to say it was for joy I wept, reason was with the contrary.
Recently I had found my haven only a web of deception. Loving parents with a darker side sneered and lay their bigotry sharply against my heart as I finally confided in them my disposition. Am I in the wrong? Is who I am really such a burden on society that my up bringers would finally show how full of thorns they really are?
For this I ran, and did not stop until I found a place so secluded that not even those who knew me as well as they could hope to reach me. Still I find no solace in this childhood memory, only the unrelenting gashing the daggers in my heart came to comfort. My world had crumbled to ashes and flown off in a tempest.
He was so quiet that I had no hope of noticing his advancement through the shadows. So silently he crept that if I were to lift me head even the slightest is would strike his chest. A soft cooing suddenly filled the air, causing me to jump slightly into the night watcher. Knives slowly traced my back, yet I failed to notice they were meant for comfort since fear had me in its cold iron grip. A voice, deep and rich as honey, spoke peculiar words in a sympathetic tone.
"Please, keep your eyes drawn shut for a moment longer, I truly mean no harm and bring only an ear for one so troubled as yourself," I noticed how his voice had a bestial hint, "My form is much feared and shunned, but it does not do justice to whom I can be. You may lift your eyes now, young one, and see for yourself what I mean." Fearful as I was the situation was still peculiar and, being the way I am, my curiosity succeeded my fear. I looked up slowly till my neck became erect, and then turned counter-clockwise to face the stranger. A bolt struck me then and I could feel every inch of my body, from the top of my crown to the tips of my toes, shudder with electricity.
Thick grey fur blanketed his form, not even the hint of flesh visible through the shroud. Tall triangular ears reached for the sky and a long, toothy muzzle protruded from his face. His arms, chest and digigrade legs bulged with muscle, yet he still looked quite lithe. Those clawed fingers of his slowly stoked my back and those eyes...
Those eyes, a bright, piercing gold, were so kind and so beautiful, like a domestic puppy. I was staring into the eyes of a wolf who moved as a human would, and talked with a trained voice.
"Do my sights ridicule my sensibility, am I truly staring at a beast of myth, a lycanthrope?" My voice was hell, each strangled word spoke of fear and disbelief.
"Aye, that I am. It's just a physical inconvenience of the moment, though, and you seem as if a story weighs on your conscience. What good is a story to tell with no one to cast a spell upon? I invite you to entice these acute ears of mine and I leave you a guarantee of my patience." Maybe that is what I needed most, for even this miracle of mystery could see within me a need to release this pain whose icy, fiery claws I felt grip firmly on my heart. So talked I did, and I released my passionate evil. All the while he sat there next to me, pulled tightly to my side with a one arm embrace, speaking a silent comfort with a simple nod of his muzzle. So genuine he seemed I let myself become victim to his form, speaking my last words as I crashed against his chest and wailed. Humility was lost to me as I cried upon his crest, my own arms wrapped tightly around his far-fetched sides so my fingers could not touch.
A silky yet dry tongue passes over my ear, and I was brought back to reality and noticed how engulfed I was in his arms. It felt right, it chased away my fright, so I decided not to take flight and, as queer as it may sound, I found myself snuggled comfortably with this beast. Time passes, the tears stop flowing, and I feel little weights pull against my reluctant lids. My head was tilted up, my gaze fixated with his. There was a calm intention there, and by the time our lips part it was too late for me to deny myself what had just happened.
"You are a brash one to achieve such an advantage, and I should feel indecency bathed in shame yet none of that is a feeling, but with anxiety and my own brash antics do I feel myself eloped." The wolf gave a throaty chuckle.
"Brash is honorable when these feelings of shame are transparent," I found a dogs nose to smell wet and cold, "But brashness is in halt of sensibility, for these antics are caused by intentions which sensibility must consent to," Of course I find cause to find more shame, my face glowing red.
"My sensibility does consent, only if we speak no more of sense." His grins was wide, and he picked me from the bench - oh so easily - and set my down on the green carpet not too far away. The night was cold; I shiver in my sky clad frame. This was my break through, where dreams and reality seemed the same. That same silky tongue I can feel already being mischievous. Starting from between my toes, tip-toeing across the arch and heal, across my calve, dividing the hamstring. Nighttime is late, the streetlamps have run dry so our only light is the cresent smiling down upon us.
Moaning softly I lift my stomach from the ground, letting that sly tongue have the greatest access. Around around, dip in then slip out. No one could see us, no one would see us. Further in it goes, my heart about to explode, I felt slightly nauseous but did not care, the feeling oh so good. No one would find a need to see us. Paw pads in the shape of a hand find a grip on my intimacy and I fel a new set of waves that almost break through.
His tongue recedes and I drop my forehead firmly against the ground, panting heavily in excitement and pleasure. Then I feel it. First it started as a like poking against my orifice, then it flared to be double the size of my tiny flower, pressing firmly against the rim. It began to hurt, so I dug my fingers and head into the ground with my mouth agape. I couldn't feel the stream of spittle spill from my mouth, but I could see it clear enough. Harder and harder he presses against the barrier until he popped into me. He rest there, letting father time tend to wounds only he could touch. When I was ready, more length pressed onward. It still burned, but pleasure wouldn't allow me to notice.
My body began to rock back and forth under the beasts weight, I could feel a dogs lump press against my every thrust but knew it would not fit, not on my first. He was so relentless, so strong and quick, yet so gentle and precise. Slowly he would slip in, then out, a sudden swift thrust, slowly absent. Even his hands were as nocturnal, one teasing my phallic and another roaming my chest. And then, I screamed.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
My pencil I let fall and my hand gently rubbed the scars on my shoulder. Looking out my window I see the blackest of skies ere dawn. Tomorrow, love, tomorrow. The story I set aside never to be finished.