[ the iron of blood, the bitter of mugwort, the mawkish taste of honey — and the besmirch of poison.
lokapala strives on self. they sing songs of humility, they pen poems on awakening, they celebrate what is. when the sun rises and paints the sky blue, they see it true, and find no fault. when it rests in the horizon, and splatter oranges and pinks, lokapala sings of fire, fire, fire. it has been said, during times of eld, that it had been in that spot, under a waterfall, on the cusp of winter and spring, that the world has seen its first embodiment of sincerity. a being so honest and pure, so delicate and true that none thought to defy its reason. they are what they are, and they accepted it as such.
kaveh, lokapalan-born, praised the tales, dreamed of them. vivid are his dreams of perfection and flawlessness; reality is painted a darker color. dreams are fragile. the heart, glass. the self, porcelain. kaveh cracks on touch.
he pushes, still, uselessly, at the mercy of his own inadequacy. his body, honest, gives in. it is, after all, the self; true to itself, to its carnal desires, and he takes poison as it is delivered. the taste is nauseating, and it anchors him. that is, he finds, the worst part.
the drowsiness hits first. ] If you don't want me, throw me away. I'm tired of being your trophy of war.
[ the words burn on his throat. his limbs, heavy. what good will sleep bring? it is a cycle that repeats itself. samsara is, after all, punishment. what goes unsaid, lost in the woes of a body that shuts itself down, is: you're making it harder to hate you. ]
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lokapala strives on self. they sing songs of humility, they pen poems on awakening, they celebrate what is. when the sun rises and paints the sky blue, they see it true, and find no fault. when it rests in the horizon, and splatter oranges and pinks, lokapala sings of fire, fire, fire. it has been said, during times of eld, that it had been in that spot, under a waterfall, on the cusp of winter and spring, that the world has seen its first embodiment of sincerity. a being so honest and pure, so delicate and true that none thought to defy its reason. they are what they are, and they accepted it as such.
kaveh, lokapalan-born, praised the tales, dreamed of them. vivid are his dreams of perfection and flawlessness; reality is painted a darker color. dreams are fragile. the heart, glass. the self, porcelain. kaveh cracks on touch.
he pushes, still, uselessly, at the mercy of his own inadequacy. his body, honest, gives in. it is, after all, the self; true to itself, to its carnal desires, and he takes poison as it is delivered. the taste is nauseating, and it anchors him. that is, he finds, the worst part.
the drowsiness hits first. ] If you don't want me, throw me away. I'm tired of being your trophy of war.
[ the words burn on his throat. his limbs, heavy. what good will sleep bring? it is a cycle that repeats itself. samsara is, after all, punishment. what goes unsaid, lost in the woes of a body that shuts itself down, is: you're making it harder to hate you. ]