this is poetic prose...an ongoing story..there will be additions made periodically to this thread..whenever i get around to adding to it, to whoever is interested in reading.. i posted this in the "stories" section before, but, someone commented it felt more like poetic prose than a story. it's both, but whatever. this section gets more traffic, or something..

The Tale of Quiet and Rune

Part I

The tale of one young soul thru the eyes of the starlit heart as the journey ends and begins anew, is one that is bright and full of hope. Into enlightenment, Quiet, our hero climbs towards musty corners of his inner soul as the never ending twisted path of forever leads him on, for the way back is subject to a fatal defeat. The vision leads him on to the obvious destiny that awaits him, oblivious to everything in his way whilst falling down and down to the delusions within his own deep thought. Attempting to make it right, setting himself up for yet another path, to a new awakening, as his karma follows him along to the end of the road where he yet again finds the same obscured obstacles in dark midnight silence. Prayers sent above seem distant, yet necessary to escort him into comfort in absolute empathy as his love swirls and travels thru the drain within the sour and sweet sounds of complete and utter nothing. Nothing envelops him and is sent to nowhere where the lovers' lament calls to him from afar, as a message to God is sent up and up, waiting for the time to love has arrived. It will be soon as he waits for his hopeless faith to renew in an urgent ecstasy until the moment of her tide to set in. Patience is a virtue taught by all yet followed by few. Lingering doubt and anorexia are all he has to himself as he is devoid, incomplete and a stranger to the all too different reflection as he surrenders to the bitter revelations of change to fit the new skin as he discards the old. Progressively, the rhythm of sickness and sorrow he knows so well merge towards the mirror, as he still does not comprehend. He waits. Pondering of her and of him, he does not know where it all really began or if the beginning was just another simple end. Twirling and dancing, the pure thoughts call him towards his home, back to the full circle of the past cries of the bold. They still live on beneath battered shields of silence and neglect and abuse of kindred souls that are all complete strangers to the void, as it empties itself inside every one being that encompasses one another forming the being of God in all divine glory. He will triumph even thru the same failures so long as love guides his heart. In this, he gathers his will to live on despite the ghosts of his past who will always haunt his way of life, whatever he may choose. Over and over, he has sung this and true understanding will dawn upon all whom he dedicates the songs of forgotten times and love lost and love to live on to you. Forever you.

Part II

It takes two to fight as it takes two to love. A shattering cry of a silent prayer breaks the glass of a wish come true. A name among all others to light the dark: Rune. A symbol of love, of everything true and pretty. A puzzle to ponder over as time takes its toll on all souls, young and old. Blessed and scorned, always lost within voices in their heads. A thousand lives and a thousand years as fate repeats itself, playing its dutiful role, imploding inside yet another implosion wherein plagiarism finds its cruel mark. Quiet plus Rune equal none other than the infamous love. Divine as whole and torn as two. Quiet knows this and in turn, persists in a restless sleep and weary walk along a path of illusions and enchanted sand castles searching for Rune. A new journey has unknowingly begun. A taste of what is to become of him as he drifts along without pause, without restraint is simplicity itself. Another wrong turn and a negative pulse emanates from within. A forlorn sadness and a wailing song of hope are heard as a call to arms, in which this one soldier rises. Born of lockets and fate, raised on nymphs and hate; a revelation is uncovered. Love conquers all. In the end, they will most assuredly win. Another step towards her as faith is reborn. And so he falls into Rune's demand. Encased in love's demand. Their beating hearts are always knocking at eh door as an omni-present, centrifugal force pulls them towards a seemingly greater power. Quiet screams as Rune calls to him. A beckoning siren, an annoying twitch and a soft smile wrapped all in one. Comfort is provided in a multitude of colors, blinding yet revealing, to dead eyes inside a lost heart. What was made to be and what is meant to happen was always a speculation of belief in fate or in control. In this, Quiet continues in a forever losing battle with himself. With a lyre in hand and Rune in heart, he stands tall and dark. He lives by this heart and his heart is true. Love will win.

Part III

A love letter: they could plagiarize your lips with smeared paint of liars unadorned of wishful thought. They could inspire your essence to fill you whole. They could speak from the heart without a soul. They were never one to call love their own. They were evil in disguise. A fool to all who would smile to their sways and a disheartened lad who mourns them all. Alone, would he be there alone? Murder his eyes, murder his mind, corrode his soul but don't take his heart. Rhythm, could you feel it? A beat, solid steady heartbeat to cover his stumbled, twisted walk. Laugh they would, cry he could. The way things are. Sad as sad might be, the way things are, blessed be he would tell himself. Better than them, no, all the more wiser, quite possibly. Quick, look, could you see God over there? No, just a boy. But this boy, a lover out of time. Silver to black. Pure to obscure. Why can't they see? It is not yet the end, but the beginning is already up at it again. Where then did it start? Last to win, first to lose. Mnemonics and riddles were his game. A maze, a puzzle or maybe just a balloon wherein fear lay its lucky scythe upon the brow of a ghost faced youth. Spiders and television were two of a kind. Lonely and godly were one in the same. A longhaired angel would save him yet. Beautiful, simple, a hurt to match his own. The piercing eye of death could not touch them yet. The twisted vine of fate forever intertwined within a machine of eternal tomorrows. Love resounds in these echoes and rings on as if a giant gong repeating its impact within an ebbing hope. Mother, oh my mother, hold me now. Would we want to live on without these things or was it always to be out of our frail raven hands? You held the ways that sanity became my blame. You bled the ways valentina escaped. As we breathed in fumes of a herbal spark, celestial thought would blanket its light upon the shoulders of this burdened one. Once again, the wind would lift and carry sleep unto his weary, bleary eyes. And still the soft question upon his lips: who am I?

Part IV

Rune is found! What joy to dance and raise a toast to! Thru frequencies of lines bearing gifts of faith and desire, yet, a dark wind blows across her midnight veiled face. Alas, could something be the matter? Dead clones to befit her place would be foolhardy to want. Purity, empathy, serenity and beauty define her all. To him, love, oh love is now. The wheels of time ran on, spinning on greasy bearings upon oily grooves as lilting eyes wondered just how long it would be until a fading whisper of negation would come again. A kiss-kiss for them and perhaps even a languid embrace to dispel remorse and all the icky muck. This was theirs and this is how they loved. Discovered, rediscovered but never lost. Always two, never one. The Self did not exist alone. Never were they alone. There were always fragments of a past and a present. The future was always for theories that would never quite slip into the right skin for that skin became a present for forever to live on, and forever was only as long as forever could be, which was of course never. And in this they knew one another as any passerby might catch a glimpse out of windows wiped with fingerprints and noses to the glass. Wish, oh wish they may and wish they did. Rune laughed the ways and Quiet would cry in grief. Greed was never his to call his own, however self-doubt was always his demon. The language of love was always his tool, a crooked cane to hoard and never to share. Clean sheets and a face of youthful desires lacked nothing that the wise had already known. Maternal feelings were always there, cloaked in wild-eyed jests of a becoming dream, unfolded before velvet promises of a content soul. Shame unto sad ducks with bread to their beaks and spite unto their God who's will was only his own. And in this, the days would pass, linger and sometimes reoccur to fill the pitcher up with hot cider, as the steam would lift their spirits to a daunting past. What had become was out of hand. Fate had its place and Quiet had his destiny. With doll-faced tendencies, he played the part he was given. And was it well played and said? ...life goes on. So let them come with truth and lie and let them rub their stains upon their backs as he would scrub incessantly as Rune cupped his tears in her ocean eyes, filling him more and more until he burst to her pain. The grace of love was adorned upon their mantle of hope. The morning was already upon them and only the first night had past...