@_sleeby_rat_
So basically I rarely ever write poems, and I wrote this two page one for an application. Problem is, I have to shorten it to one page, and I'm not entirely sure if it qualifies as a poem (I mean I think it does because I once read a poem with similar formatting but idk bc I don't write poems lol). Anyways, here's the writing:
Upon a mountain of ruin and decay, I approach a lapse in the rubble and ground.
There lay a shrine, jutting from the clay, jutting from the ruins of ash and stone.
It was dark and dust-laden, its marble entrance faded and cracked with the weight of a thousand worlds crushed upon its supports. Tentative steps drew me to this oasis of stone, a glimpse of the old world encased in the throes.
A deep breath drew in the scent of a cold wind, its dust-laden wisps humming, singing in an ancient tone.
And who am I to resist, to tell this old god no?
The dull thud of my own footsteps echo as I follow the slant of stone inwards, stepping away from the decay to breathe the air of old gods.
And those gods?
They welcome all.
A rustle. A slither. A brush of wings. A glint of eyes.
They are everywhere. They are nowhere. They are in front of the only soul they will ever pass their legacy to.
A child? A man? The outside?
There are whispers all around me. I don’t care. This darkness is so much more welcoming than the blinding warmth of the new world.
A glisten of silver. A creak of old bones. There are eyes everywhere. They don’t want to leave me alone.
Not without a story to tell.
There is one in front of me now. It looks young. It looks tired.
Each movement flashes a new color, a new tone of welcoming cold. There is a silver crown of barbs atop its inhuman head, there are lines that trace its body as if it were carved from the meld of a dying world. Each movement brings a new color, each as soothing as the last.
Malachite irises housed in ivory casings. Cobalt wings melted into lavender skin.
The cold is so kind to my tired eyes.
And god, are there eyes everywhere.
I can only see one, but there are a hundred. A thousand. All condensed into bodies too small to contain a million dead dreams and a million throttled hopes.
So I sit. I sit on that cold, marble floor, which has given way to the mountain clay and unforgiving stone. I fold my legs and look up to this creature before me, like a school child awaiting their next lesson.
“What are you?” I ask, though my voice falls on nonexistent ears.
The beginning of the end, a voice says from nonexistent mouths.
“Will it hurt?” I think to ask, though I am unable to say whether or not I care.
For a moment, the creature says, its voice like cold water rushing through my ears, flooding my body with a gentle, suffusing chill.
“Did it hurt when they left you?” My lips are moving of their own accord now. I have so many questions. So little time.
They never left us, that same voice soothes, cold silver blankets draping around my body, which has been burning for far too long. We are still here. They are still here. And that’s enough. Isn’t it?
“Yes,” I murmur gently, my eyelids drooping as I feel that cold weight settle atop me, lulling my body to relent to my tired mind. It had been so long since I had felt at peace. Since I had felt the cold.
We used to grant wishes, once. Would you like one? that old god asks softly, its words gentle on my aching soul.
“Would you tell me a story?” I ask softly. My voice is so quiet now.
And that kind, cold voice washes over me once more.
Upon a mountain of ruin and decay, I approach a lapse in the rubble and ground.
There lay a shrine, jutting from the clay, jutting from the ruins of ash and stone.
