The Choice of History

  
The Choice of History 

There lies an entrance, a red door to a place far different from any other. Where magic is real, time is alive, but love is dead. It is a place of desolation and pain. A place where blood flows from rivers and mountains are built of death.

  It is a place so horrible, the door has been sealed shut. Locked for all eternity, a place once flourished with bountiful colors, a place where ever growing thoughts and wonder once pranced like dear through meadows. But like anything, there comes a time of destruction.

  Where city floors were leveled, trees were chopped, and hope was a lost. A time when everything ran its course and something new must take its place. A time when death lives and life is but a drip of water falling from a distant cloud.

  But not all is lost, though the entrance is locked, hidden from the eyes. It can be found by the heart, by the vision of faith. It can be brought from its slumbering chambers if only one dares to find it. To leap in with a eyes open and walk among shadows.

  And it has been found, it has been reached by a daring soul. Verciege, a man no different than one beside you, except. That he dares unlock the dangers of what lives beyond here. He dares take up the risk of madness as he steps into the horrors of the red door.

  He walks, key in hand through the overgrown shrubs. Thickets of plants have forged a mighty wall between the door and the world. But Verciege gallantly makes his way through. His bare arms scathed by thorn and branches.

  His heart whispering him to fight on, his mind twisting to the agony of his flesh. Blood seeps, but he keeps steady his goal. He reaches the door, but not without scars. He clasps his hand around the handle of the door.

 He places the key made of bone into the lock. He turns the key and the door rumbles with its turning of locked gears. He steps back, the red door opens wide. Screams of anguish rush from it like a wild howl of wind.

  But he does not fret, he steps through the door and steps into the world far different from any other. He looks about, and there before him stands a world tarnished of any hope. Of any glory to speak of. Only colors of grey, red, and dark shades of black cover the landscape.

  The sky it angry, heavy clouds rumble with thunder, ghosts shriek in the droplets of rain. Mountains reach the sky with spirals of death. Decay holds all life, if it ever was life. He hears and feels nothing but suffering.

  He steps further in, feeling, tasting, smelling his surroundings. Nothing but rot coats the air, flavors of sour things land upon his tongue. His eyes water, not from the unsightly or the aromas of the rank. But from the suffering that thickens the air like a humid summers night.

  He can feel his soul weep with the world before him. His heart is crying out for peace, but none is found in this place. But Verciege denies any thought to turn away. He walks deeper and deeper into the damp oasis of rot.

  He sees bodies, bones, scattered throughout like patches of grass. Black roses sprout from the mouths of the dead. Sharp bones form from the dry soils at his feet. He is careful in his steps. He presses through woods of horrors.

  Where children of the damned are pillaged like flowers plucked by the hands of eager winter. It becomes cold. He shivers, his breath is visible and his skin changes to a pale tone. But he freezes not, he lunges with strength through horrors of the woods.

  Rummaging his steps through the horrors before him, he diverts his eyes from the perverted whispers of this hell. Echoes of tragedy pulsate from the dying trees. Rivers wail with envy of life as their blood flows into the abyss of this hollow world. Through the woods he arrives at the foot of the mountains.

  Foul stench emanates like rotting eggs. His face feels as if it taking to a fever, sweat seeps from his brow. He now shivers in what is the symptoms of illness. But he gives it no answer to be his weakness.

 He places his first step upon the mountains of death. Limbs of bodies stacked in mounds. Creatures of the unknown scurry about, gnawing on the wretched doings of this miserable place. Their teeth chattering. The sound of bones breaking reverberate as the creatures devour.

  Verceiege keeps to his heart and begins to climb. He passes the remains of what appears to be a family huddled. Hiding from some form of terror. He passes a heap of youth, shoved into a ditch like sewage. He climbs further, finding only more death, more horrors spring out.

  He seas piles of bodies chained together like slaves. As a man in darkness wearing a uniform tattered from war and other dreadful things screams in agony as if reliving his misery moment after moment. As he holds a sickle and hammer one in each hand. Slashing at bodies, begging them to confess. He passes billows of smoke with all aged bodies charred from flames. He finds crooked trees with bodies hanging, instead of leaves.

 The horrors do not seem to end,

    Verciege begins to feel heavy with suffering and he begins to cry. His hands, covered in filth he places them upon his face as he slowly kneels. He release tears as if they cannot be controlled. He removes his hands and looks forward.

  And there before him, through the blur of his tears, stands a tree, a large tree, it stands alone. But this tree is not dead. It glows softly against the dark and broken theme. Its roots are healthy, but its leaves are dry.

  It stands at an edge. Verciege lifts himself from the ground as his tears fall. His skin pale, his breath forming to the brisk air. He steps about the tree and places his hand upon it. Feeling the tree he is overcome with an unfamiliar feel, a feeling of peace, of happiness and jubilation.

  He feels all suffering be lifted from his heart and his eyes see into it. Inside the tree he sees a paradise, a place where people are laughing. He sees friends, family, he sees people doing good. He sees the poor, the rich, and the middle being kind.

  But he also sees the darkness that hovers above it all. He sees the sorrow that shifts its shape to fit through the cracks. He sees the terrible things that wait behind the curtain of white. But he feels more for the joy, for the jubilation.

 He releases his hand from the tree and steps around it. As he does he sees something at the edge. He sees a grave stone and a cross. Verciege steps up, leans over and examines the gravestone. It has no name.

  Enthralled by the trees visions, he places his hand upon the gravestone. He is taken once again by wild visions. But these are visions of him. Visions of wicked depravity, visions of hope, of laughter and anger.

 It flashes with pathways of darkness and light, with hate and love. His bones quiver and his heart becomes somber. He release his hand from the gravestone and sits back. He looks to the grave and upon it reads, Verciege Dialego, born 1989-....
--
What will be your choice in the making of your history, in the making or ours? 

We can live as we are now, or change through the adoption of healthy habits. 
    A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding Of Words

Catch me on, TwitterFacebookInstagramYouTube

Thank you for your support! 

Popular posts from this blog

The Scar of War And His Suicide To Escape It

A Boy and A War

To Those With Depression