Tuesday, January 6

Shackles of the Gardian

Art via pinterest.

Fingers dripping with the dew of an unshattered sky; crimson blossoms from the darkness hollowing his chest, darkening his pallor unevenly. Marbled lips part, an exhale of blackened smoke clouds the air, casting his features in obscurity.
   A wolf, she told me long ago. He's a wolf in sheep's clothing. I knew she was right, yet in blindness, I smashed the mirrors lining my haven so I couldn't see. So that with time I could forget those memories, and simmer in the heat from what I felt within.
   He haunts me now. In my dreams; in the newly erected mirrors I've set within my marble palace. Vapors from his past still linger, the dark fumes which escaped his lips, pressing slowly into me; like a drug. Slowing my heartbeat, and sickening my mind.
   He's here, all around me. I feel it in the walls, I see it in the imprints left between the roses silently dripping from the balustrade like ruby blood.
   My haven is not a home; it is a tomb.
   His tomb; and I the guardian.