Chapter 1- The field of flowers.
A book, how interesting. But, this isn't any ordinary book my friend. "How so?", you may ask, well, I too don't have a single clue for that, all I can tell you is that the title is infact what is says to be. "The ashes of truth", is only a phrase used metaphorically, but of course, there's no need to tell you that, am I right? Well, good.
A poem, written before this, called, "shattered like a lovely disguise" has its own fairytale.
Like withering pieces of strand, made gazing down to the depths of this wretched foe, no look in the lazy eye, no contextual remanaze of a whisker, galloping soul of one of a heartless beast, no upset grumble or sound, like a gentle giant on a cool summer day, locking locks of a maze, international sensations, blocking the way, a blooming flower, or an iron rose, a blue weathery sky, or a new gloom, what's sees is saw, what triggers- falls, one like a cold stone; earth shattering gold, bronze, silver, copper, metal; for a lovely disguise, hiding up in the sky- beneath the waters, down the well, up the stars, down the universal race, no social crop, no letter hopes, lopping a breath, scent of a lucky clover, smell of muffin, cold- humid wet snowy rain of a resting day, morning arises; whatever will it do? Waxing a mope, smooth, but no sorrow, no will power, but an exterior passion; into a railroad, come like a beast, but only give, save a day, but never get a blank, petals of a leaf- left for a month; new seasons arrive, what hope will it give? Bruised like a butterfly, but do track of team work, lemon crisps; wasted on emotions; feeling rum- cracked to the ground; covered in bugs; not of a liking, but of a buzzed feels.
YOU ARE READING
𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓱⚱️
FantasyA mysterious person talks to you about a book published by a young writer that got tragically killed right after the book got published. But, before publishing his book, he wrote a long poem that no one discovered. The poem, was in theory to be part...
