Coruscating thoughts betray thy primal instinct.
To the witness, the clouds commence, skewing that which has been long since known of man.
It is here, where the heart begins its activation. An internal clock of inborn premise commences, stirring forth the Grimoire incoherent. In counting down and spiraling through, a leavening of complacency spires to, flecking the stars with gold and sparkling hues.
In a momentary lapse of permutation, reflective as it is refractive, adjunct to the enemy it stows. As is the composure under compromise, baseline’s stilt, rearranging polarity. Such damask blends breed patterns unrehearsed.
Pulsation bleats awhile rapt in throbbing undulation. Emulously, in duress, the synapse skitters to inert measure; a weight felt reactively within the fading doe.
Struggling, she battles each interval coursing in the plague. Struggling, to remain focused, to ignore the loosened clasp. Struggling, to deafen the fleeting harmonics born this eve. Struggling, to adhere to innate notions, to see through, both the vision and the virtue, she’d painted in her dreams.
Fledging forth amongst the besmirched quaking born from such dystopian avails, one would not think ill for fading soon to the aberrant qualms that darkness drew.
Despite tremors, of consequence, nature is discovered; where traits, of perseverance, dare not yet escape into death’s ever-alluring, outstretched arms.
And, in as such, violent resolutions forego their anticipatory applause. Instead, baffled as they should be, said constrictions grow intrigued by the tarried rebuking from this beast.
The doe, now pale like pallor’s bride, rejects thy outcome, denouncing the agonies your restrictions make.
She adheres instead, to the coursework determination phrased within; blocking all currencies of pain and by staring deep into her pleasure’s swoon. And it is within this now, which sensations become avowed, thusly taking her through, to that time, in which she elsewise would’ve claimed.
Amongst each meandering pause another echo would emerge. Upon a bed crafted in cruel reality, in a setting coated by seeds of unnatural parlance, maternal impulse still chose to surge. Instructions whispered she to stay. Whence came the word, perhaps the ethos spake, perchance the wind itself? Though none knew such a cure, enough was spoke to stir the beast e’er still. Mystery kept wake her eyes, to stare, beyond the pain and through the sadness it would purge. Mystery kept full her lungs, to breathe, inhaling another tinge of life. Though fleeting still, mystery kept alive both instinct and hope, enough for her to feel what it was she knew as truth. Mystery kept her silent, still, to marvel upon the art she gave and to lay eyes upon that which she would invite to set her free.
Yet, when time came to, she looked away. Many stood agape, to believe she chose to test the temperament of fate. If not for the architect with womb, never would this truth be sate. For the salt cast stream, which was all the story needed a mother to see and know. Such action was not bred in denial but rather bled from sacrifice.
As the doe would have relished taking her leave with such a sight, it was out of fear she chose no such reprieve. As much as her lids did beg for this delight, she could not bear to know her expiration would be her artistry’s initial sight.
Such strength uncommon, born of a love noticeably unseen in such a time, to sacrifice the love she bleeds, so her blood can bear not the timeless burden of such bloodied sorrow.
Seasons would shift and time did pass, leaving us our return to this unfamiliar familiarity, a present path connected with the seeds of life’s past.
A hunter, it is told, often discovered a child scampering through his favorite tract of lawn. Upon this day and for each one that does still pass, he would stand still to watch, as this child aged upon his familiar stretch of path. Here then he sees, each time he does, the child is cuddled close, amongst a warped wood of unnaturally yet naturally shaded hue. And strangely enough, seasonably without expectation, such a man, of his line, should choose ebb back such a gifted sight. Never did his quiver part from the spine, effectively deboning sycophantic notions of archetype.
And as the well worn boots march away each time, a child scurries along through brush and wood, ever looking back, leaving indication it would return again, a truth this hunter proudly knew as true.
And what is to be said of a predator that sympathizes with his prey? Perhaps all that can be said, must lead us through, past the points of typical convention, to the precipice of an unlikely connection, a convection, that forever onward, only two would truly know.
Or quite possibly, as I like to think it through, perhaps the myths are true. To which, so the songs bestows, that despite what we know of as truth, a doe still protects her own, even after her days were eternally through. The tale then retells, that through a promise made, between a sickly doe and a hunter who fared not well in hunting, that bonds be built, between man and nature and nature with man, creating an ouroboros between adult and child.