mute beholders they are.
one hidden in the darkness of death's nothingness, the other bright shining throwing himself onto dead dusts.
der eine ein staubkorn im auge des anderen.
between them, oh, there is such a great distance. never were they meant to reach one another, see one another. but in certain moments of uncertainty, both of them caught a glimpse of the other. and silently they dream what is left to imagination.
what fills the distance barely fills the tiniest foxglove. yet it seems no one would ever succeed in overcoming these obstacles.
and there she is. the one they love. the one that keeps them apart. the one who's exposing herself to both of them, consuming both of them. one is holding her, the other keeps travelling in her fairway. no strings, but invisible forces, betraying a connection of multiple dimensions.
oh what is it with her? Their eyes are drawn to her, much like the snake's eyes are fixed to the fakir's pipe. as soon as he stops his performance the creature would kill him. and they will kill her the moment she freezes. the moment that resembles the previous one will be the instant of her death. they will show their face and consume her entirely.
so she keeps dancing.
her dance it is no dance of feline grace nor is it a dance of agility. it is not led by a rhythm and it does not follow any music. it is a dance of passion. it is led by passion and it is passion which she follows. she is everything but a ravishing beauty. sluggish are her movements. despite the lack of velocity, they seem to be haphazardly uncontrolled. there is a fire burning deep inside.
a brazen mantle radiates deep low tunes with every beat of her heart, which is trapped in a cage that shines like the morning sun itself if ever exposed to light. desperately trying to escape the dungeon this one prisoner rages against its prison's walls, yielding no effect but bringing bruises all over this iridescent crimson body.
and while she dances ever so slowly her skin splinters and hot sizzling blood breaks through aeons of innominate shells of stone and dust as if they were parchment. silent witnesses to her unstable temper are buried under her skin and there will be victims this time as well. the never-ending blazing stream burns the surface, leaving black pools of cinder where had been life and nothing but steam where had been seas.
she burns herself with passion.
and they watch her silently.
one exuberantly burning itself and one never knowing any fire.
she screams and shivers with every inch the ember is claiming.
violent tremors are shaking her very being and soon, soon oceans begin to rise and dark clouds are being raised to high mountains of water.
she releases a deep-drawn sigh.
then she cries.
mourning her losses she covers the graves and the wounds with the purest of liquids, futile attempts to wash away the reminders of death and pain.
and still she dances. new life will grow on ashes, new seas will be born and the scars will fade.
but my love, she knows, it must not stop. never will she be allowed to keep what is hers for eternity. she will have to destroy. she will have to create.
I love her.
I love her scars.
She is the one.
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