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About Literature / Hobbyist SageUnknown Group :iconpoetry-of-vision: Poetry-of-Vision
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The window into my mind lies within this gallery!




I've been gone since August.

I'm writing a book. It's... a big book.

Love you guys. Stay creative.

~Sage L. (VeiledPoet)

    6 a.m., a time where I belong cocooned, caped in a bed comforter amidst vacancy. The home is quite aged for the neighborhood. Morning fog, the cloud farce. Visible proximity is twenty meters. Farther out is an artist’s favorite flavor of canvas: blankness. The sun is but a luminous speck of white, like a flashlight under covers.

    A rat ahead scurries from a rusty gutter, and if were me, that rat, the world would be comfortable among darkness and scrap. The streetlight bronze measures my shadow meters longer than factual, my ears under an in-town railroad bridge; I am further from a lamp now. This neighborhood is made of brick and, rising from untilled grass, appears as nether-squares. Shaken are the doors of elder homes. The paint had peeled like the boils of smallpox, their porches creaking and missing planks.

    While my heels are aching damp, clapping the beige sidewalk, I muse over my steps. Clapping soles. Solitudinous rhythm. No one outside to hear it, shame be that. Riven by the thought, I return to reality. I stand at a crooked stop sign still; for were it not the pale sheen of gravel aglow by moth-eaters overhead, the town should ebonize as pupils do in heaven.

This road forms a drowsy crux , I at the intersection. To the left rises a fabled cathedral. I remember the population’s absence, but my plight is more personal. The air stuck icy on my goosebumps; far away a dog was barking, vicious first, followed by a commanded whimper. If I was to chance at satisfaction, now was the time.

    To the church a chain-link fence was lined, rattling as Christmas bells if their voices left puberty. A tinkering roll resounded on the road. A pebble. I slowed, preparing my escape if anyone appeared. Nothing. Residencies eventually are farther between each other, their inside lights all off as far back as the stop sign. Not that I knew, since I refused to turn around. The nearby streetlight was a compliment to the empty ambiance, serving as the Charon-ferryman into that Stygian cemetery. Recurring moths orbited nonsensically, playing games of mute bumble bees. Few paces remained, and as I neared the gate's end I peeked bravely at my trail.

    There was nothing.

    I waltzed on gossiping grass in quiet, searching among the scattered graves which would satisfy my inquisitiveness. Only one was lifting flowers, spread soggy by the earlier rain. I knelt before that one, pretending there was something significant about it. A name eroded well. It couldn't be known who this was, but the dates underneath told little; an eight was easy to see, the others blurred into moonstone. Had I wasted time? Unsure. The wooden fence perimeter appeared to be closing in. This grave had been useless, my knees dirty with disappointment.

    I remark, “The dead flee from anonymity; ride away on that steed, be dead.” Give my fingers brisk motion. Although I possess a name and do not need one. Does that bear me death? Had me wondering that thought, and I was lost. No dead need a name.

    Wet grass blades bend. Two steps I pace, met with a door weathered and worn. Its brass handle, a rusty ovular bulb, is loose in its mechanism. Barely by turning does it open. A house of God. Wooden beams stand on each side, the floor planks scratched and withered. Dilapidated, yet fitting. Fog presses into antiquated windows attempting to seep in. Poor fog. Many old seats file themselves like military ranks, with few Bibles laying on some. No one is here. Another empty vessel.

    Seat I myself on a bench, staring into the windows. I lean back to relax, tilting my head to shoulder. The fog is really trying. From what I understand, there are no people outside; no, not even a human left. The fog’s aggression festers outdoors, but no other immediate threat.

    What then made the canine cry?

    This bench whines while I get up. I ought to investigate the rest of the church. Approaching the pastor’s office, I hear many items tumble on the door’s other side.

    “Is someone in there? Another?”

    Carefully, quietly, I grab the handle, opening the door just wide enough for my eye to see within. A brown leather chair is turned sideways, a portrait fallen. Weight prevents the door’s easy swing. I push with a slide on the floor and enter. First, I notice the gaping window and motionless red curtains. A portal, beyond which are infrequently planted tombstones. Contesting the door is a bookcase, a plethora of its literature spilled. Likely a sudden breeze, I assume.

    I exit, going next into a smaller room. Confession. Silent. Two stalls are at its end, facing the entrance from behind their own curtains. Light weakly in this room slithers through tiny glass windowpanes no wider than a ruler. I come close to the curtains, diving my hand into the left to peer in. Deserted. The stall right is the same, so I sit. Sit and wonder.

    I let out a sigh, my breath an expanding mist.

    “Dear God, my name,” I begin, “is not a special name. I to no occupation belonged. Before this fog I was home, reading under the grand willow tree. I… always loved a story.” I glance over to the wall, expecting some reconciliation. None.

    “I never truly believed in a god, honestly. I humor myself even now, lonely in this world. My grandmother said once that the fog was a spirit collective, the departed come to earth. Childhood folly, I’m certain. Days after I know not the origin of the mist. So is this life, I suppose.” I shuffle my hands over the chair’s arms. “I wonder, though the dead are nameless, what I should call this reality devoid?” I retreat through the curtain.

    On the door is a mirror, in its reflection my stall’s curtain waving back. As it bends, the left curtain also moves, resonating a voice from within:

    “A name? I require none. Neither will you, momentarily.”

Borne on the mirror’s visage, I stand alone.
A Loneliest Way
My first scary story. Or, rather, first story indended to be scary.

:3 Salve!

Thu Jan 17, 2013, 6:25 PM


VeiledPoet's Profile Picture
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
My name is Sage and I am a poet!

I came to DeviantArt in order to showcase any poems or literature I come up with. I also create graphic images; I'll try to get those on here as well. I aim to give you:

-Thoughts and different perspectives on things
-Amusement and entertainment

I hope you enjoy!

Favourite genre of music: Anything, really
Favourite style of art: I tend to love abstract/surreal artwork
Personal Quote: "Tempore, Veniet"--myself

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Add a Comment:
BramLeegwater Featured By Owner Mar 25, 2014   Digital Artist
Thanks a lot for the watch and the favs! Much appreciated!:D
BeyondJen Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks so much for faving 'Seam Stress.' :glomp:

(Apologies for being so late in thanking you.) :oops:
VeiledPoet Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for writing the piece.
It helped motivate me to light a candle-bomb on the love cake.
Of metaphysical taste, I mean.

Thank you.:squee: 
BeyondJen Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Wow. That's really great to hear. I'm really happy to hear you connected with it so much. :hug:
oaklungs Featured By Owner Nov 19, 2013
thank you very much for the favourite :heart:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Sep 24, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for faving You can't have it all :)
ssensory Featured By Owner Sep 22, 2013   Writer
Thank you so much for the faves!!
BlakeCurran Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2013  Student Writer
Thanks for the fave! :hug:
ShadowedAcolyte Featured By Owner Sep 12, 2013
Thanks for the recent fav. I really appreciate it!
rnpcarter Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2013  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the fave! :D
Add a Comment: