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Post by fernpath [tutt] on Nov 27, 2016 19:27:59 GMT
Cold air combed its soft and tender fingers through the pine-strewn grass, swaying their thin surfaces in a music less-- yet no less melodic-- dance. All of nature heard this soundless tune and added their own contribution to the swirling leaves. Yet beneath the crowned canopy of brambles and thorns, Fernpath could not join this dance. His body was reacting to a much different tone of music, his muscles twitching uncomfortably with every jump in the rhythm. It was the poisoning sound of a nightmare, the same one that came to visit him every night, preying on the back of his neck, sinking their teeth into the tender flesh of his spine, creating chronic migraines. It drew those painful dark lines under his eyes and drained all of the energy from his bones.
The dream forced him awake yet again, the large, old tom pushing himself slowly up into the reassuring balance or four legs. Fernpath dragged himself out from the den, the bags under his rich green eyes seeming to drag the skin off his face and down drip onto the earth, leaving behind a decaying skeleton. He drew his face up to the waning moon, the eerie silver light casing a hollow look across his gaunt face, showing every rut and crevasse etching into his face. The stars twinkled down on him, giving off almost a mocking laughter to this old soul. Those sad eyes glowed with longing as a silent prayer rang out from deep inside his chest.
It wasn't yet morning, nor was it still night. A gray color washed the horizon, a mix of the black night and the white morning. Fernpath felt stuck in this gray life, not sure where to go or what was coming. He always felt as if the world was moving too fast and he struggled to keep up, only to stop for breath and seemingly alway landing in the gray zone. Fernpath could never seem to find his black or white. He needed something-- someone to help him find his way back on track.
The dream forced him awake yet again, the large, old tom pushing himself slowly up into the reassuring balance or four legs. Fernpath dragged himself out from the den, the bags under his rich green eyes seeming to drag the skin off his face and down drip onto the earth, leaving behind a decaying skeleton. He drew his face up to the waning moon, the eerie silver light casing a hollow look across his gaunt face, showing every rut and crevasse etching into his face. The stars twinkled down on him, giving off almost a mocking laughter to this old soul. Those sad eyes glowed with longing as a silent prayer rang out from deep inside his chest.
It wasn't yet morning, nor was it still night. A gray color washed the horizon, a mix of the black night and the white morning. Fernpath felt stuck in this gray life, not sure where to go or what was coming. He always felt as if the world was moving too fast and he struggled to keep up, only to stop for breath and seemingly alway landing in the gray zone. Fernpath could never seem to find his black or white. He needed something-- someone to help him find his way back on track.
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