He waits by the door with a faded expression. He wears a mask somewhere between anticipation and disappointment, his pale skin luminous in the moonlight. With his silver hair tied lowly and hung over one shoulder, he waits with a tense stance in his chair. Not on the edge nor fully reclined, he waits with the same mask he wears.
He looks through the dirtied glass window before him, with spider-web cracks arching upward from the stained glass corner. The spiral flower pattern ends just under his eyes, letting him gaze empitly upon the stormy plains outside. The wet grasses, plastered to eachother, waver violently in the night's gale with the void of the sky above them to reflect their observer's glance. His eyes do not move from those terrified grasses who can only follow the gusts direction, for he is seeking something else to part them.
Lightning splits the sky momentarily, the thunder to follow rattling the leaky thatched roof over the man's head. The old roof jealously drips next to the young-looking man, youthful straw in short supply after the wars last year. The man remembers those wars bitterly as the cause for his voidful gaze, his lonely heart, and his empty home. Venomously, he remembers the person who took all his joy away with one blow.
He finally places a gloved hand on the windowsil, a spider skittering over his gove as he pushes himself to a stand. His smouldering glance leaves the grasses outside and train on his doorway. Tonight he would search again.
_Nova_ · Mon May 19, 2008 @ 08:21am · 0 Comments |