Blog Archives

When Death Becomes Her

Is conceding to defeat
preferable to basking
in its inevitability?
Humanity began
another war today.
Where one concludes
another begins;
there is no end to
tyranny.

Oppression is what
keeps the heart at bay
and prevents our love
from living. Where
once love reigned
supreme, now she
knows only defeat, for
we have failed to
nurture that which we
once hailed as our
most paramount emotion.

When death became her,
she was taken at the
reaper’s blessing. His
minions, our militaries,
were only too eager to
prove themselves reliable
by eliminating the only
force strong enough to
halter humanity’s violent
expansion.

In the name of hate we
killed her; love is now all
but gone. Her demise will
not be remembered; just
another death on the
casualty list; just another
nameless number in the
statistics; just another
victim to the grinder that
is war. If love was as
popular as hatred,
perhaps she could have
outlasted till the bitter
end.

If this be true; if these
written words are proven
reliable and all that this
piece dare reveals is the
inconvenient existence we
are all bound to, then what
is the purpose to our
continuation? Why bother
submitting to a life that is
destined to be unfinished,
for what is life with the
absence of romantic passion?

The lie we would be forced
to tell ourselves in order
to get out of bed each
morning would be a betrayal
upon our very souls and
lead only to our damnation.
This writer can already
taste the suffocating hatred
that has drenched the
surface of our planet; can
you not taste cherub’s
defeat?

If love was so easily taken,
then what unfortanate
future is in store for our
soul mates? Why bother
living, breathing, eating,
if your lover’s flame has
already been extinguished?
With the amount of death
that has covered this
world, what chance is
there that your future
lover has already been
consumed?

What chance is there for us
if our futures do not include
such passion? What hope is
there for anyone if
tomorrow brings us no
closer to that which we are
lacking? If love is truly
dead, then we have
already joined her in the
afterlife. I only hope that
hatred does not exhist
there too.

The Red Winter (A Snow White Story)

Death be cold, death be quick, death be
instantaneous. Life is lost and loss is
life and I, the fair damsel, future
princess of this rich loved land am left
motherless. Loneliness becomes me, as
father finds love again in the arms of
another. Those arms that first felt warm
are as cold as the icy wind they came in
on. Barren damnation lurks within the
cold eyes of the future queen, who dares
to rule in a stead that never did belong to
her. I think vile thoughts about this vile
beast who steals the heart of my father
with the sharpened tip of her sword, an
action of such brutal brutality that only
Lucifer himself could applaud. I escape
the clutches of this sadist, I am lost in a
strange land. Exotic; alien; unknowable;
I am frightened and alone. This is not my
warm bed; this is not my humble abode;
this is no longer my fairytale never more.
My heart be but broken and the queen
wishes to break it more. My beauty; my
intellect; my passion; it rivals all that she
is evil; her rooted sin unable to take hold
in the Garden of Eden that is mine. She
consults her mirror; her cold mirror of
fallen souls, which dictates to her the
actions that must be taken, to ensure that
I be forsaken. A hunter, lone and cunning,
is called upon to serve. On bended knee he
pleads before her, to be released of the
burden that she commands. But she be but
so wicked in her words that she threatens
him to his core, and not even a warm heart
like mine could dare live against her malice
cruelty. He comes through the forest; I hear
him wandering like a giant, cutting through
the trees. The foliage falls beneath his feet as
he comes to grab my life from me. But my
fair beauty is beyond reason and it captures
him without a doubt. He stumbles upon his
axe, unable to sustain his feelings as he
gazes upon the ravishing impressions that I
was given at birth. Like a seductress, I
have him round my finger, my rosy lips
he longs to pluck; but that is not want I
want from him, for he will help me make
the fate of this world unstuck. He returns
to the hag that hatched his orders and says
that I be dead and with these words the
queen drops her guard; for I be but very
much alive. The lies he tells in my
defence however are soon revealed as the
slanderous masquerade that they are by
the terrible mirror, that shan’t remain
blinded for long. Ravaged by her hatred
to see me struck down dead, the furious
queen, betrayed by her own instruments,
devises a plan of sweet ecstasy. The bitter
dread of her frozen foul heart is poured
into an apple seed, that upon taking root
within the soil births a delicious death. As
I unknowingly take into me the crisp flesh
of the forbidden fruit, the moistness of its
texture hides its killer plan. Like the steel of
her sword, I am crushed beneath this legacy
stolen from me by a woman who sits upon
a throne of deceit; this perilous pile of blood
and gore that the wretched witch has
institutionalised to see me fall from grace.
Like the tree the evil was birthed from, I
am fallen and I ought never to return, for
I know all too well that death is death and
there be no cure to stifle this tragedy. Like
falling into a dream, one of utmost pitch,
I notice nothing of my old existence with
the strength to awaken me. Death may
have stolen my reflection, but the queen
has revealed, unbeknownst to her it would
seem, her Achilles heel. What hubris on her
part to believe that fruit could dare deflower
the petals of my perfect person and like a
bird free from its cage I unexplainably rise
again. My rebirth may be but something I
ought to ponder, however, I’ve a country
that needs my spirit and my aggressive
vengeance is the power this land needs
to be revived. The queen may have her
harlot parlour tricks and her seethed
sword, but in contrast the land has me
and I am all she shall ever need to blossom.
I march with all my fury and charge into the
grounds I once called my own and humbly
take the head of heresy that dared to rule
in stead. Her mirror is but broken with the
touch of my hand, for purity is the strongest
device against wickedness and the last thing
the bastard mirror felt was the unconditional
love of this virgin’s still beating heart. As for
the malice queen, well, we shall not speak
of her again, for upon setting her rancid flesh
upon me, I triumphantly cut her down to size.
Her death signals the end of tyranny and it is
now that my reign shall begin; all shall fall
before my love and never be but broken again.
The moral of this story? That in itself is hard
to tell, but I am certain you know of the
resolved conflict and the conclusion because
you too have fallen under my spell. My
passion shall embrace you and none in
my blood line shall escape such birthright
and from now until time no longer ticks,
everyone will know the story of I, Snow White.