Posted on June 4, 2014 at 01:15:21 AM 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
Like all creatures of habit, the gold one returns to his home.
Slowly but surely, weathered orbs behold the shimmering isle. Rays from Apollo’s glaring gaze gleam across the translucent water. Rhythmic legs pump, so automatic to the gold that it is like riding a bike. Hooves latch into deep sand. Against the pull of water he brings his great bulk out of the waves.
The Ridge.
Home.
A smirk lands as chocolate lips curl back and usher forth a piercing sound. He calls to them, the mares of his home. From far and wide, the watchman has returned. The caverns grapple with the sound, greedily sucking the noise into their hollow runs. Up the side of the mountain they whisper it like children playing telephone in school. The monkeys shout, the bird squal and resettle in the dense foliage.
A few months have gone past. His hair is tussled, his eyes pure and focused. A few months back he had caught word of a vicious rumor in his homeland, he had gone, he had explained to his mares where he was going, he had went with purpose and he had returned, as promised. Midas could never leave this place, he could never leave the panoramic sky or the soft clash of water against sand.
No matter what journey hooves took him on, the golden king would always return.
A hook shaped, freshly made, scabbed wound nestles atop right wither. The salt water has opened the wound in places, and strawberry colored liquid blends with the damped sandy color of pelt. Seaweed tangles in locks of bronze. He snorts. Knees buckle none too gracefully as the hulking king nestles into the sand. Waves lick eagerly at ankles, as if hoping he is some corpse to feed their eternal thirst for tragedy. Indeed far from a corpse, but a man who is home at last from a harrowing journey. He needs rest, he needs food, and most of all, he needs family.
Slowly but surely, weathered orbs behold the shimmering isle. Rays from Apollo’s glaring gaze gleam across the translucent water. Rhythmic legs pump, so automatic to the gold that it is like riding a bike. Hooves latch into deep sand. Against the pull of water he brings his great bulk out of the waves.
The Ridge.
Home.
A smirk lands as chocolate lips curl back and usher forth a piercing sound. He calls to them, the mares of his home. From far and wide, the watchman has returned. The caverns grapple with the sound, greedily sucking the noise into their hollow runs. Up the side of the mountain they whisper it like children playing telephone in school. The monkeys shout, the bird squal and resettle in the dense foliage.
A few months have gone past. His hair is tussled, his eyes pure and focused. A few months back he had caught word of a vicious rumor in his homeland, he had gone, he had explained to his mares where he was going, he had went with purpose and he had returned, as promised. Midas could never leave this place, he could never leave the panoramic sky or the soft clash of water against sand.
No matter what journey hooves took him on, the golden king would always return.
A hook shaped, freshly made, scabbed wound nestles atop right wither. The salt water has opened the wound in places, and strawberry colored liquid blends with the damped sandy color of pelt. Seaweed tangles in locks of bronze. He snorts. Knees buckle none too gracefully as the hulking king nestles into the sand. Waves lick eagerly at ankles, as if hoping he is some corpse to feed their eternal thirst for tragedy. Indeed far from a corpse, but a man who is home at last from a harrowing journey. He needs rest, he needs food, and most of all, he needs family.
MIDAS
everything you love surely dies
everything you love surely dies