Post by Saosin on Dec 4, 2010 21:48:43 GMT -5
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And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything
All the love gone bad turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see, all that I am, all I'll be
How hollow the wind seemed as it howled with reckless abandon through the skeleton labyrinth, its shrill echo a testament to the icy chill that hung like a shawl across Moon Island. Solitary was the raven wolf who moved now, slowly and carefully through the snow drifts that seemed to wrap their way around his burly physique as if to swallow him whole in a whirlwind of stark white. But winter was the season of the wolf was it not? The statement was true at least, for the lonesome traveler who stuck out so dramatically against the alabaster backdrop. This was the season that Surulian longed for all year long, lusted after in his dreams, sung for unto the moon. Testosterone was elevated as was emotions in all wolves this time of year. But aside from that… winter held the epitome of beauty in his aged eyes, as if they were kin to one another, and perhaps they were. For they had always traveled hand in hand, bound by fate and love.
Surulian had ventured off on his own, far from the borders of what had become his home here on this island. His eyes were full of stars, and his heart heavy and cumbersome, his mind, a sea of listless memories. In short, he was home sick, and in such, sick of life and its emptiness, for he had nothing truly to hold onto these days. Nothing to ravage his attentions, nothing to pull the strings of his heart. He longed for the days when his life held meaning, held adventure. He longed for Reykjavik and Cold Creek and all the island had meant to him. He was sure of course, that some young wolf had taken up the homeland turf, or perhaps Cold Creek had become abandoned altogether through the passing of the seasons. Oh but what it would be like to return… just to see... just to smell those familiar pine once more. He had contemplated it… rushing upon the great open ocean, even as his paws lingered in the tide. But alas he could not bring himself to face the icy surf and the torrents of waves. And so he had turned around, only to return here, to the place of Larka and Atka, wholly unfulfilled but none the worse for wear.
And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything
All the love gone bad turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see, all that I am, all I'll be
How hollow the wind seemed as it howled with reckless abandon through the skeleton labyrinth, its shrill echo a testament to the icy chill that hung like a shawl across Moon Island. Solitary was the raven wolf who moved now, slowly and carefully through the snow drifts that seemed to wrap their way around his burly physique as if to swallow him whole in a whirlwind of stark white. But winter was the season of the wolf was it not? The statement was true at least, for the lonesome traveler who stuck out so dramatically against the alabaster backdrop. This was the season that Surulian longed for all year long, lusted after in his dreams, sung for unto the moon. Testosterone was elevated as was emotions in all wolves this time of year. But aside from that… winter held the epitome of beauty in his aged eyes, as if they were kin to one another, and perhaps they were. For they had always traveled hand in hand, bound by fate and love.
Surulian had ventured off on his own, far from the borders of what had become his home here on this island. His eyes were full of stars, and his heart heavy and cumbersome, his mind, a sea of listless memories. In short, he was home sick, and in such, sick of life and its emptiness, for he had nothing truly to hold onto these days. Nothing to ravage his attentions, nothing to pull the strings of his heart. He longed for the days when his life held meaning, held adventure. He longed for Reykjavik and Cold Creek and all the island had meant to him. He was sure of course, that some young wolf had taken up the homeland turf, or perhaps Cold Creek had become abandoned altogether through the passing of the seasons. Oh but what it would be like to return… just to see... just to smell those familiar pine once more. He had contemplated it… rushing upon the great open ocean, even as his paws lingered in the tide. But alas he could not bring himself to face the icy surf and the torrents of waves. And so he had turned around, only to return here, to the place of Larka and Atka, wholly unfulfilled but none the worse for wear.
