I Hate Making Tags - Tumblr Posts
The Orchestra
Archive #4 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's note: Welcome back to another depressive episod-
The Orchestra
----------------------------------------------------
Crushing.
I feel sick to my gut retching in disgust.
I hear the orchestra haunting me in the forgotten corridor passages in my ears,
Daunting me.
I feel faint from exhaustion.
Am I truly in the works with the devil? Blessed to be cursed upon arrival when I finally realise my true nature?
My fingertips are still cold from gliding across the icy surface of your deadbeat heart.
Are your walls strong enough to withstand my pride?
Did you love me because it was me? Or did you love me because it was your first experience of love?
Droplets of sin kiss my dull skin like an after shower of rain as a cauldron of emotions floods my walls and pushes against me in ripple tides.
For shame has bewitched me.
It's hard to breathe;
Hard to stay awake.
Will the cello ever outshine the violin?
Breaking their backs just to be working behind the scenes,
Whose sole purpose is to make the other shine.
The moon and cello;
The violin and the sun.
I'm chained;
I repeat my mistakes to the point my hands are tied.
The escape is merely pleasant for the short term investment of loss.
What is there to guarantee if not tarnishment—
Your blood stains my silverware, your flesh between my teeth.
You can wash away your thoughts but mine linger like the smell of rot.
Your walls hindered the sound of the conductor's strained sigh,
His graceful arms swayed to the point of silence, reminiscing about his first love.
His torment fixated on me as a warning.
The orchestra—
A sickly sweet melody turned bitter as it sounded like a death march.
Their fight to be heard makes me shudder as I chew on my regret.
Does the conductor ever lose focus on all who plays?
Some are cast out to sea as others are broken down into pieces to be moulded into framework.
Paintings are a sheer will of power that articulates format.
Control?
Not yours.
You may be a canvas with brushed out colours, but you are not art as that truly has meaning.
Meaning— comes from your heart alone.
Something that you do not wish to seek without a second opinion.
Drowning sounds more appealing than being left alone on driftwood.
The seemingly endless waves of potential frightens the fallen angel that has clipped wings.
Never meant for the sea:
Never had the chance to fly.
Just…
Floating.
Drowning sounds more comforting.
But why do I still hear the orchestra? Even as I sink down... down...
Down....
Down.....
How ironic that hell is supposedly down to the core of the earth,
How the warmth of the centre is seen as evil.
Such lies— for which I only feel the cold.
The tight feeling of goosebumps chokes my soul as my body gives in,
For what it feels like I am reaching the bottom of the cauldron.
Sinking.... Dragged down further than I can register in my delusional head...
…
…
….
The sweet cries of the violin are muffled down here.
I can hear the cello–
Oh,
The moon…
It shines down here.
-------------------------------------------------------