There is a time when the others come out to play
Silvery eyeshadow over long lashes, sprinkling into
Rouge-red cheeks, and lips in various shades of orange.
They dance under nights of no moons, new moons, their moons. They dance as they own the world for that brief period of time, in which they can pop blackberries into their mouths and wonder.
There is a night when the others come out to dance
They never cease their imitations of the greats,
Moonwalking their way all the way up to the orb itself,
in a beam of light that comes to receive them.
That is all they could want in that moment, all they could need,
In a descending staircase of spiraling shadowlight.
Some legends suggest that the others are those of blue blood, who never minded a few stares, a few glances, a few gaping mouths in their direction, because they were only maniacs that didn’t belong in this world, and they never needed to.
There are other legends,
With the excessive explanations that most lies have,
When colors of stories aren’t enough to tell them,
When rusty red romances cannot satisfy anymore,
When beauty is seen only in the embracing of brazen cowards
Who can twirl the night away, only to realize that
They never observed the sun.
A/N: This was inspired by the story "Blackberry Nights", which is actually on Fictionpress, if you would like to look it up. I'm not sure what I think of it yet, I can't decide if it's edging towards a topic that is too cliche, or if it is incoherent enough to be different. Anyways, a (slightly belated) birthday present from me to you...
