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Deja VuNight dappled with bright lights far above the humble earth. The dark library of memories. The stars observe us through their immortal gaze.Deja Vu
Like Orion, placed there after his tragic death.
She does not realize what she does. The harsh words spoken in deliverance of the final judgment.
What does it feel like? To be murdered by the one you love? By the one who loves you?
How bizarre that a bond
like the thickest rope could be severed in a heartbeat.
Did he know
by ~RedwingKstrl87
Youth and AgeConnor was the boy who lived downstairs on the ground floor. I used to play with him often, considering we lived in the same building. The park on Roscoe was our true domain, a single lot devoted to childhood. It was a lot the size of any other, nestled between the street and three smaller apartment buildings, much like our own. A thick layer of woodchips cushioned our falls from the tube bridging two wooden platforms among many. Connor had dark brown hair that wasn’t curly at all. It was straight and glossy and dark as if every strand had been dipped in molasses and preserved that way. His eyes were equally dark, but more often than notYouth and Age
by ~RedwingKstrl87
The WarmthI am a friend to warmth. Summer months of heat that droops my eyelids and sends me into a world beyond my own. Nights by the fire wrapped in blankets to escape the enemy of cold. Warmth of burning under my feet, the beach, my first home. The sun high above drying my tears, burning away the sorrow. The warmth of the summer rain that sets me free, the warmth of the breezes that laugh softly along with me. The kindness, the compassion that melts away defenses and false truths. Independence, burning like fire within. The warmth and heat in my veins, striving for something just out of reach, driving me onward, comforting me in defeat. I long for iThe Warmth
by ~RedwingKstrl87
Grandpa“Grandpa.” In my lifetime, only one man has answered that name, when there should have been two. Now the other answers, him just barely in front of me. My footsteps are meant to keep slow time, following his just behind. His shoulders weren’t broad, he isn’t as tall as my other grandfather I know, the one I knew in life. He wears the glasses that betray his nearsightedness, the same disability I and most of his sons acquired with time. I must follow because I am merely a child. He is a man of tradition, and children should be seen and not heard. And yet he breaks this code, his curiosity overcoming his supposed good sense.Grandpa
by ~RedwingKstrl87
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