Posted on March 15, 2014 at 05:08:44 PM by MIDAS
STARING AT THE BOTTOM OF YOUR GLASS
hoping one day you'll make a dream last
BUT DREAMS COME SLOW AND THEY GO SO FAST
Time changes all things.
Nature illustrates this paradigm. Weathered rocks become smooth. Rivers change direction as they erode the earth. Bodies slowly become more scarred and tattered. Minds slip into little nothings – never able to return.
Time corrodes all.
But some memories stay. Resilient, resistant to time – they remain and fight, refusing to be blocked out or forgotten.
The golden king remembers pieces of the Quarry – bringing his first mares home – and Macabre in that small seaside cave.
A shudder creeps like a spider against skin. Twitching ensues as cold wind slithers where a warm body used to be. In discomfort, golden orbs creep open - looking for, and not finding - the mare next to him. Barrel rolls as strong legs propel the figure upward. With a shake, dirt and vegetation go flying from pelt. Crown gazes lazily around, assuming Sylvia has left to graze. A growl issues from within and the watchman murmurs. Perhaps food is not a bad idea.
He begins to climb higher on the steppe and toward the jungle. Ivory teeth snap at bits of grass. Casually gazing to the small rocky shore, he is surprised to make out the form of the perlino and another standing there. A snort erupts and body stiffens. Velveteen ears perk forward in intensity. He is no longer that young stallion welcoming to all – the ridge is a fortress, and none enter without the king’s permission.
With a growl, the gold begins a purposeful descent. Blood courses hotly underneath skin. Irritation flecks on the contours of his visage. Alert and prepared. Sylvia is the king’s weakness, and enemies who studied would know this – use this – and though their advances would be against the king, his pearl could not be risked.
The sea breeze barrels against his face. A large inhale through chocolate muzzle brings the ocean foremost to all senses. He hears the slap of waves against the jagged rocks of the ridge, the echoes from the forest but does not pause to listen. As the stallion closes the distance and sidles up next to the perlino, he slows. Orbs study the flaxen chestnut for a moment before recognition flashes in his eyes. “Macabre.
The name rolls out as though covered with dust. Memories flood from deep, neglected corners of the mind. Betrayal. This is what the king remembers. She is the same as Aria – she ran away. Unlike Aria, he had not followed. He had let her leave. He should be angry. He should ask her to leave. Instead, something within this stallion wants her to stay, at least for a moment.
She had been his first love – before Aria, before Sylvia - and whatever transpired in the past – she deserves a chance to explain.
She had come here – perhaps not knowing it was Midas’s home. But if the Fates have been so kind, the king will not slap their hand away. “You’re not dead.” Eyes wash against her form again – not familiar anymore. Chocolate muzzle touches Sylvia’s soft skin – grounding him in the present, pushing old memories aside. Heavy-lidded eyes close as they soak in her scent. This ritual calms the bronze man.
Gaze drifts back up to Macabre, who still stands in the oozing sand. “It is good to see you.”
And it was.
Nature illustrates this paradigm. Weathered rocks become smooth. Rivers change direction as they erode the earth. Bodies slowly become more scarred and tattered. Minds slip into little nothings – never able to return.
Time corrodes all.
But some memories stay. Resilient, resistant to time – they remain and fight, refusing to be blocked out or forgotten.
The golden king remembers pieces of the Quarry – bringing his first mares home – and Macabre in that small seaside cave.
A shudder creeps like a spider against skin. Twitching ensues as cold wind slithers where a warm body used to be. In discomfort, golden orbs creep open - looking for, and not finding - the mare next to him. Barrel rolls as strong legs propel the figure upward. With a shake, dirt and vegetation go flying from pelt. Crown gazes lazily around, assuming Sylvia has left to graze. A growl issues from within and the watchman murmurs. Perhaps food is not a bad idea.
He begins to climb higher on the steppe and toward the jungle. Ivory teeth snap at bits of grass. Casually gazing to the small rocky shore, he is surprised to make out the form of the perlino and another standing there. A snort erupts and body stiffens. Velveteen ears perk forward in intensity. He is no longer that young stallion welcoming to all – the ridge is a fortress, and none enter without the king’s permission.
With a growl, the gold begins a purposeful descent. Blood courses hotly underneath skin. Irritation flecks on the contours of his visage. Alert and prepared. Sylvia is the king’s weakness, and enemies who studied would know this – use this – and though their advances would be against the king, his pearl could not be risked.
The sea breeze barrels against his face. A large inhale through chocolate muzzle brings the ocean foremost to all senses. He hears the slap of waves against the jagged rocks of the ridge, the echoes from the forest but does not pause to listen. As the stallion closes the distance and sidles up next to the perlino, he slows. Orbs study the flaxen chestnut for a moment before recognition flashes in his eyes. “Macabre.
The name rolls out as though covered with dust. Memories flood from deep, neglected corners of the mind. Betrayal. This is what the king remembers. She is the same as Aria – she ran away. Unlike Aria, he had not followed. He had let her leave. He should be angry. He should ask her to leave. Instead, something within this stallion wants her to stay, at least for a moment.
She had been his first love – before Aria, before Sylvia - and whatever transpired in the past – she deserves a chance to explain.
She had come here – perhaps not knowing it was Midas’s home. But if the Fates have been so kind, the king will not slap their hand away. “You’re not dead.” Eyes wash against her form again – not familiar anymore. Chocolate muzzle touches Sylvia’s soft skin – grounding him in the present, pushing old memories aside. Heavy-lidded eyes close as they soak in her scent. This ritual calms the bronze man.
Gaze drifts back up to Macabre, who still stands in the oozing sand. “It is good to see you.”
And it was.
MIDAS
everything you love surely dies
everything you love surely dies