Nightingale

"I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you. . ."

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Nothing escapes these eyes. Or the beat of a dozen different wings turning colors out of stagnant, thin air, how she breathes, through the rib cage, through outer realms of magic and midnight. Bleeding hearts never stop, unable to see. The bleeding never stops--long ago there was a war that wrecked the surface of the world. She saw the light split and the darkness splinter and spilled pieces of her soul to save the seasons.

The spectrum, her expression shifts. Sending colors showering down throughout the sky. It rains for days, then darkness falls, swallowing remains unclaimed. Every spell a sacrifice... Her voice haunts every echo, the wind, the tide as it pulls and rolls under. Within waves, within halves of the horizon that plummet into space, unevenly. An ethereal voice, singing ancient spells, bringing life to the lifeless places the war ravaged long ago. She steals them back, sneaking smiles and sneaking suspicions as she travels the past. Then shapes fragments from her soul, a multi-faced bird, twelve wings, twelve eyes, to watch the world from the other side. The soul-shape rises and sings in the witch's own voice, revealed truth, some other perspective, phantom-matter sent into the dark.

Good night, world. Good morning, all at once. Her gaze flickers across wayward dimensions, never settling, lighting sparks, drawing darkness as she stares. And the shard of her soul on the other side stares back, each history interlocking, timelines meeting briefly as a breath goes in and out... inhaling voids to end another song.


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