ENDURE.

levi becomes an even better character when you imagine his cold demeanor not being a result of voluntary detachment but extreme social awkwardness

like picture a former thug trying to learn to fit in with people who grew up in polite society. he probably wears that cravat because he thinks it makes him look more proper or something. also the fact that he tries to tell jokes but theyre 1. toilet humor and 2. his delivery is awful so nobody can tell whether or not hes joking and all he gets are blanks stares and pity laughs

                ‘ maybe the answer is simpler than you think. try not to let your thoughts get too busy. ’ the question is unbeknownst to a fragile mind, perhaps the perception he offers is not quite of use in such a situation but it seems ADVICE always offers itself when least needed. perhaps the knowledge that coats his tongue should be used wisely. 

THERE’S A FINE LINE OF   distinction between the point of honest clarity and the illusion of it.   his tongue sits as a knife within the cavern of his throat, words coating his tongue in strings of scarlet serendipity.   his fingers drum against the surface of the table.

‘I was wondering– that is– hoping that you could pick up a soil                              sample for me the next time you’re outside                              the walls. I have a few, but they’re ages                              old and I want to compare from now. I’d be                              very grateful if you could.’ 

HE INDULGES IN A PENDING   type of sorrow, unidentifiable, an eyebrow lifting.   in the space between his lungs is where adoration truly has a name.

             in all fairness, he exists on a plane separate — he sees in different shades of color, & he feels the blood within his veins thrum ( thrum ) to a different rhythm. in all fairness, the man possesses an integrity with which he feels free to admit the stain he cast upon himself: a result of the determination to remain in the game. in all fairness, the man is good upon what he claims …  & he does not claim anything else. not of himself. 

                       ❛  —– there is, at times, nothing to be said. of course. 

THE WORDS HANG THEMSELVES LIKE   a warped prayer, the point of newfound rapture, to stand against the broken relapse of jurisdiction.   he knows better.   he knows the nature of scarlet lifelines versus cyanic ones, webs of collectivity versus nests of compassion, yet here is where he stands.   drinking in torment, crunching sorrow between his teeth, his composition a muted storm, fingers curled into fists.

enduring the decay of dawn.

WAX POETRY STAINS HIS COMPLEXION,   breathing color into poisoned nerves.   the curve of his mouth is straightened to offer compensation by means of heavy stillness, the crossing of his arms being the only indication; regard is a silent reward.

THERE’S THE TALE OF A   cautionary kind playing on the edges of his lips, the breeding softness under war more substantial on the tip of his tongue.   his gaze slashes through the silence of acknowledgement before he focuses elsewhere, expression devoid of clarity.

HOW NAIVE this intelligence befalls him, then, being a victim of circumstance and neglect. What deems him as apart from the rest of his deplorable kind ? His ability to pick and slaughter to his own accord ? ( He has merely redirected a natural river of bloodlust — in his veins roars the raging tide of the killing throes: is it because he has shown you COMPASSION ? No, he has merely chosen to begin his own corruption. He was, after all, a being apart from creation. He was never meant to bow to the whims of his own guilt. )

He huffs, close to a bark of laughter stripped from his throat. I understand enough that you are mistaken. The Doctor had once ingrained such words into his very soul, or that thing that rests now at the base of his neck, dormant: They mean to hurt you. Keep your distance.

THE INSISTENT CRACKING OF TRANSPARENT   bones wedged between his teeth create a rift of oblivion, between comprehension and honest illusion.   between SACRIFICE and dust hymns.   he’s jagged around the edges, words like sharpened knives drowning in the turmoil of chaotic time.  mutilating endless eras of constricted constellations, where legends create their new boundaries, and unable to slip from his mouth in softened blows.   he is a predator.   like barbed wire, conviction sits in salt and blood-battered retribution.   the holy mausoleum for bruised hearts, a reservoir for ruin and human-sealed decay.   expectation.

needless death, remorse, they cling to veins of cyanic blooming.   a lifeline, the evidence of primordial sunrise, it caters to the madness of spring.   ancient grief is wedged between the notches of his spine, the entertainment of resolution crawling under his tongue in waves of dissatisfied silence.

naivety can create an abyss of permeated nightfall.

STAINED GLASS.   A CAGE OF   broken gospel, shredded to process ephemeral salvation.   tainted youth a reflection of the reaction to thoughts lost on his lips, but wanting the brush of acknowledgement to paint in sparks of gold.