Ripples of grief

Chapter 18

A ceaseless melody of clocks ticking by, grinding against the threads of warmth to bring devastation to the joyful living, and tear away the flesh to reveal the bones that dwell within, hidden beneath veils of skin and carcass. The joy lay simply in every layer of skin like paper, shedding light into the moon and letting it reflect those gazes back – like a lover of a serpent, always knowing they could drown out those memories in the fire of those cogs beneath, writhing within the waves of mechanical fire. Cogs of time always tick by under crimson light the silken petals simply a façade for the thorns of a rose to hide beneath as the waters churned, enveloping the light of a glinting smile in the soil of a grave – mechanical flames could spread through that fabric, but they could never look like light – no matter how blinding they were, how relentlessly they shone. They were the intermittent pulse beneath the waves, tearing the silken path into fragmented islands, and watching the memories burn away as they were drowned out by shadows – mere silhouettes. But even the rust upon those cogs that was tossed in rain from the skies of fog could never replicate true bliss of sight – too many veils of dissonance would perpetually rock the cot, and spill blood from the ravines. The relentless melody of harmonic dissonance would never cease – only pause as the seas grew quiet, and the pulse of war slowed, a heartbeat that throbbed without passion or compassionate words, simply murmuring, a dormant ember of that serpentine mass of writhing waves; the cogs tearing at the scarlet petals. The vipers could strike at any moment once more, but for now the ravines were slashed through the soil of light that coated a single smile. For there were cogs within the water, always ticking by with waves lapping at she shore. Even in the wait there was the uncanny call of a friend – it could tick away as a murmur, but the seas were never peaceful for long – at quarter past it could strike with viper's fangs. Dull anticipation. Then it could erupt with that cruel cackling of spilt blood, and that would envelop all but the rust on this clockwork, a false moon rising with that sinister glare of melancholy as all perished.

Along the cogs turned, trundling as if in the daze of lassitude, enveloping blankets and veils of deceit in the dark as the fog ahead obscures the path, but tempts the serpent to peer into the page, vanishing into the horizon to flow in a river full of torrents fighting against each other, throats torn in fury – the tides were exchanging a glare as the sea fizzled and seethed with melancholy anticipation, a false moon sending into the clouds of doubt sparks and dagger shards. And watching them fall with cruel talons toward her single, floating petal. She could've sworn that there was glass in that wave as it crashed over her single wooden haven – protection from the cruel shards of glinting smiles – blinding among the false lights of cogs grinding against teeth and fangs, emerging flames beginning to blaze and dance and flicker. She could've sworn that a single cog broke through, the silk tearing on the horizon as the silhouette wandered away once again, left to flee like a crow from a graveyard. All as the talons of ice sent a great scar across the limp corpse in her hand – she could barely see it in the gloom as its blood spilt. Every true hope had a face, a complexion like a mother's as it looms over your head from the sky, caring but menacing – uncanny yet unfamiliar. They were like memories – embers so easily put out by the very waters that they stirred. She watched it perish in her hands as the trundling pulse of cogs and hesitation to hold in your hand the suspense began to fade, buried by that ineffable light – so blinding, yet in that truth dark, gloomy and dolour-ridden; as if with a malady of fallen souls. She could almost watch as they were choked by tendrils of despair and terror; like gas rolling in, seeking its quarry before it crashes overhead in fatigued carelessness. Then as the chasms of relentless, despairing cries clattered into a cruel chamber of innocence, running forward – unknowingly fleeing – from the crows that sought flesh. Flesh of hers. Flesh of its. Her eyelids began to close and flicker as the blanket still rolled, enveloping her corpse in a warm cold of lassitude, stumbling forth as the false light was hidden. Engulfed in cloud.