- Jun 9, 2022
- 551
- 276
- 63
The light draws nearer. The moon wears a mask...
The shifting of seasons was grand. Far too much so, for the lack of thought or fanfare given by those forced to experience it. A war, it is. Century long battle between Mother and her parasites; the sun and the moon. It was deemed wrong of them, to simply exist as they were. They switched faces, through the seasons. leaf-bare, now drawing thin, was when the sun would wear his moon's face. She never quite sat dormant, no. Daytime was only when she tucked herself within a corner of the sky, overseer to something strange. And cats below would shiver in this lack of warmth.
But that, of course, was against the sun's very nature. They pushed and they pulled; enough, so that the moon instead would wear its mask. Mischievous sort of star. A charm you may love to hate. A sin you could not help but appreciate, in the most dire of times. Not so long, and it would be crawling upon his back, now; stuffy warmth that may persist even through the dip of night. The shift was upon them, now. The tide of the war changing. Here and now was the strange equilibrium, when the day's cold loosened more and more, and the moon lost its own ferocity.
This was a loss he mourned. The buds She'd worked so hard to destroy springing back with new life. But a traitorous soul stews with something different. Sinner, as the sun was; oh, it was an enjoyable one. Unavoidable presence, why agonize over the rising warmth? Yes, he mourns, but he accepts just as well.
An ear presses to the ground now, strange mirroring of a time that was now so far... (It certainly did not feel that way. He could still remember the first sightings of that smile. An unsureness that crept into blazing curiosity; and later, something more.) With a reverent sigh, "Hmm. Mourning you..." He does not typically express this out loud, no. But he certainly owes her. (Since how long has it been, since this was truly about Her?) Dreamy-eyed, all the same. Morally, he repents, but he strains to regret any inkling of their time, like this. His eyes flutter shut; soft indulgence. He allows himself to be further warmed by his thoughts, both new and old. His tail flicks to an unhearable rhythm, and his ears strain for a presence.
[ @MALLOWLARK :) <3 ]
The shifting of seasons was grand. Far too much so, for the lack of thought or fanfare given by those forced to experience it. A war, it is. Century long battle between Mother and her parasites; the sun and the moon. It was deemed wrong of them, to simply exist as they were. They switched faces, through the seasons. leaf-bare, now drawing thin, was when the sun would wear his moon's face. She never quite sat dormant, no. Daytime was only when she tucked herself within a corner of the sky, overseer to something strange. And cats below would shiver in this lack of warmth.
But that, of course, was against the sun's very nature. They pushed and they pulled; enough, so that the moon instead would wear its mask. Mischievous sort of star. A charm you may love to hate. A sin you could not help but appreciate, in the most dire of times. Not so long, and it would be crawling upon his back, now; stuffy warmth that may persist even through the dip of night. The shift was upon them, now. The tide of the war changing. Here and now was the strange equilibrium, when the day's cold loosened more and more, and the moon lost its own ferocity.
This was a loss he mourned. The buds She'd worked so hard to destroy springing back with new life. But a traitorous soul stews with something different. Sinner, as the sun was; oh, it was an enjoyable one. Unavoidable presence, why agonize over the rising warmth? Yes, he mourns, but he accepts just as well.
An ear presses to the ground now, strange mirroring of a time that was now so far... (It certainly did not feel that way. He could still remember the first sightings of that smile. An unsureness that crept into blazing curiosity; and later, something more.) With a reverent sigh, "Hmm. Mourning you..." He does not typically express this out loud, no. But he certainly owes her. (Since how long has it been, since this was truly about Her?) Dreamy-eyed, all the same. Morally, he repents, but he strains to regret any inkling of their time, like this. His eyes flutter shut; soft indulgence. He allows himself to be further warmed by his thoughts, both new and old. His tail flicks to an unhearable rhythm, and his ears strain for a presence.
[ @MALLOWLARK :) <3 ]