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Original Poetry >> Life

The following is a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

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city of the minotaur's touch
By Blkwidow77

 






Lately,
I've been dreaming the cobblestones of Italy.

Alleyways that slid through the city of Firenze as numerous spastic mice, scattering all directions. Alleys so narrow that contractors from the past must have polished their ass as they built a new building next to the old.

These dreams reminded me of where we ran our hands across the aged tiles of the pastel church Chiostro dei Morti; artist's creating millenia against an easel of many corners, their worn out brushs working magnificience into the paintings of sky and god.

Or god's sky and his moods shifting from a benelovence of angels, to vengence seen in striken faces and red branches condemnation in trees.

This is enough to turpentine the path out from under us, and of one night we rode a bus too far. Scattered the nesting pigeons and found the edge that let out into the Arno river. Where a bridge yawned, then stretched across glass water into another part of the city. Night cobblers hobbled along in the limited lighting of the ancient bridgeway. They were selling grasshoppers and timeless themes.

Star light gleamed omniscent.

Yet we were lost at an end of a city much like the minotaur's maze. And somewhere in the middle was a cold little room with no bathroom, that had our belongings sitting quietly beside a simple sink and mirror.

Our map was getting us nowhere. My friend coiled around herself, staring out with wide eyes.

Walking through abandoned streets of an ancient city that had fallen asleep on our shoulders. On our watch. Time passed as we wound through one winding alley after another. Alleys that would suddenly open into plazas of magnificent marble statues that posed hundreds of years for even us wayward foreigners scurrying by. Bums settling in for the night, observed our startled robin steps, as we moved past them and their thin bundles of blankets.

Our map small comfort in the lack of light.

For myself, I didn't mind our situation or whether we ever found our way out of this cold night. Our breath left bursts of clouds, and I wondered if this would be all this city would remember of us.

There isn't much in the world left to be part of, but I knew then, that I would like to expire here. Perhaps in the arms of a marble god in a plaza of consumed eyes, the skies pouring down protests of my desecration of that which represents life.

A new child lost in the old world.

Where once the world was flat,
the open moon made of swiss cheese

An old child lost in the new world~



It wasn't the people but the place.

 

The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.

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