Sing to me, I am not doing well
Getting tired of my own words
Gradually the incline planed out. When the rocky ravine opened up it was onto a sodden marshland where the trees grew small and twisted, some dead from standing too long in water while others clung stubbornly to life. Slow to sprout into the new season, the branches clawed at the dark sky while a pale fog crept around gnarled trunks. Getting tired of my own words
There was a way across the bog. Not quite a trail, nor exactly a path, it was more like patches and clumps of solid ground interspersed between quicksand and mire, where the mossy ground squelched beneath the foot and occasionally threatened to swallow it entirely. The ligh bearer was able to find the way in the faint light of the lantern. The bobbing and weaving increased, growing more erratic – and it picked up the pace, threatening to leave the young woman behind if she did not keep up.
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself
through the loudness of my own hurts
through the loudness of my own hurts
base inspired by Odd <3
