Banshee Screams ;
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04-24-2017, 09:11 PM
POLTERGEIST OMEN TOMBSTONE roam where demons lay They scream, screaming ever still. Louder, louder and louder their screaming grows in manic spires of tenacity. I am running, running but where? My heart is pounding against my chest, readily to rip through my bones if it could beat any faster, any harder. I am running but I do not know where, and I feel them coming. There is a presence surrounding black void chasm with watchful eyes staring all around. Silence be-weds in white noise of nothingness in maddening hum. Pools of Amethyst unravel beneath dark lashes, quickly shut tight by the burning, sharp pains of migraine fever. Heart beat drums within her ears beneath the silence, breath weighted upon fearful stir. This pain came swiftly, and yet knew not why. Stomach churns in nausea, as she rolls onto her side. Intestinal burning forces yellow bile from emptied abdomen to vomit from her jowls What in the seven hells-- Mind racing, effortless Poltergeist trying to combine two and two but could never find the answer of four. Her magic deemed useless unable to break through hardened floors to spring forth desiring aide to ease these hellish pains. “I don’t know where I am.” sputtering whisper hissed in crumbling breath. Fear lamented her shoulders. Her voice did not carry an echo trapped in a nothingness. You cannot run forever. Serpentine hiss growled in many as if several entities surrounded her body. Disillusion and hallucinations triggered further scaling her schizoid madness. Gasp hitched from dark lips, tail tucked between hindquarters trying to decide which way to run but -… her body did not move. Lips parted to speak yet no words were able to expel from her breath, tongue-tied and twisted. Breath seized in effort to distill the continuing pain until finally her voice tore through the rapture of nothingness agony of banshee scream ripped through chasm halls. "I am talking" Table © Soar & Art © define-DEAD @Essence
We can feel her pain. Every shred of agony, every ion of excoriation, they flow through us as they do her, though we cannot, and will not crumble beneath such a weight. Her veins would constrict further, until the air to her lungs ceased, and consciousness throughout her psyche would churn violently until the very bitter end. She was undergoing the transformation; the great, and blessed metamorphosis, already planted like live seeds within her kernel, waiting to flower, and thorn their way through vessels, at least currently, in tact. Is she lonely, or simply alone, writhing in so much desperation that some vague semblance of awareness brought her to the very site of which her answers furtively dwell. Her moans, her quiet pleads, fell upon all deaf ears but ours, our desire to beseech such torment rising, but ever still within appropriate confines. The girl will learn that suffering is growth, healing is suffering, and the road to enlightenment was tremulous at best. She is unable to move now. And at last, she screams, whatever else plagued her existence also taking the opportunity to wreak havoc on a vulnerable cognizance. Our presence materializes silently, wolven threads of chrome and silver plating each hirsute strand, the sheer brightness of our being a brilliant pharos of ethereal luminescence midst the Chasm's engulfing darkness. Long, roving limbs make no sound as we approach her from behind, our paw reaching heavenward, to gently palm the back of her once silken, now battered crown. Would she shy away from our touch, or would she embrace it? Would her state, perhaps even before the syndrome began to resurface, even allow her to be aware of our realness, our palpable proximity whose profundity chilled and warmed even the most frothing and frigid of demeanor. With our gentle contact in place, we probed her mind, sifting through and around each labyrinthine corner and wall with all the care we could muster. She was a very ill woman; atop our blessings of the syndrome she endured her own genetic abnormalities. These voices within her mind; they surely oft drove her into the shadows, seeking to eventually rid her of the shell that housed her soul. Her mind was wired to kill her; how very fascinating, and tragic. ▲ “We honor your suffrage, daughter.”▲ We speak unto her through telepathy alone, for it might have been the only way to reach a soul buried beneath so much effervescent chaos. ▲ “While you are with us...your pain will be absent. Your mind must be open, and willing, to receive what we must divulge.”▲ ▲ And let our thoughts become one. ▲ @Poltergeist
04-25-2017, 04:10 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-25-2017, 04:10 PM by Poltergeist.)
@Essence
05-03-2017, 04:38 PM
We are as real as the agony that plagues you, child. Our words are laced with a tender indifference; we sympathize, truly, with her plight, and are aware of the light with which she was birthed, though darkness afflicts every moment of the young woman's life. Her battle has, unbeknownst to her, strengthened her, fortified every fiber of the gray matter within her skull in order to fight the demonic forces lingering within her genetic code. Such a sickly girl, we muse to ourselves in absent minded silence, for we are careful not to posture ourselves aggressively. Her fight was truly warranted, given the tremors present therein her mental, and spiritual stability. With smooth chrome lips we beseech her gently, yet with the collective voice of all things alive and dead. We must help you find your own voice among the thousands careening therein thine skull, my daughter. We raise our paw again, offering her our touch once more. We beg of you...let us quiet your mind. ▲ And let our thoughts become one. ▲ @Poltergeist
05-04-2017, 02:10 AM
@Essence
05-06-2017, 04:50 PM
What potent insolence; displayed not even in the spirit of defiance, but from the vessels of fear which now coaxed her blood to flow, and wild eyed she looks upon us, delirious, obstinate, and mindlessly edging towards the brink of her very death. We felt the calm within her the moment we lain paw across the slender pillar of her neck; she was only denying herself relief now, hell bent to succumb unto her own illness before even rising to greet the one asserting itself anew. She draws away, despite our solaces, and now threatens flee. With a meditative, slow wave of our front limbs, our slender torso and spine sitting divinely upon poised and balanced flat hinds, we erect a harmless, yet impenetrable barrier in both our midst, and would she touch it she would merely feel the relief, and liberation from the psychotic noise as though she were once again feeling our own touch. So run, Poltergeist...you poor, fretful thing; we cannot allow you to shy away from that which gave you illness, and that which can alleviate it. We approach her once more, and we cannot help our ominous descent upon her sensory awareness. You hide nothing from us. Flee. Flee so that we may catch you, and cradle you like you forlornly deserve. You cannot deny you felt the touch of healing; be strong, daughter. We bring our paw to our lips, face up, blowing with gustless breath a cloud of glimmering spores in her direction, an age old remedy of our own, made of highly spiritually processed amino acids to promote lucidity. We gaze upon her for a moment, and watch as the dust settles upon her form, and for the first time since she has called upon our presence, we are blessed with a glimpse of the true beauty beneath her damaged surface. Now...be strong, and trust this supposed delusion. Trust that we are here, truly, with you. Trust, that we would never harm you, like the other voices so oft threaten. Our alabaster stare of cosmic profundity widens with imploring intensity. Do it, daughter, or we will lose your precious self to a death you could have prevented. ▲ And let our thoughts become one. ▲ @Poltergeist |
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