This is a #vss365 prompt that got out of hand.

It wasn’t a magic word spoken aloud,

nor a sweet rush of chemical crutches

that made them stand out in the masses

it was the glint of blue and freedom in their eyes

Cloud-eaters are a different breed of sentience.

Selected at a tender age, through trials by fire,

water, earth, air and isolation.

All came out marked: blemished and scarred,

veins of white innocence or angry lividness

woven in underneath experiences of breaking apart,

eyes in a different shades of violent purple.

When they speak, they use the language of storms & rain

of dry sick wheat grains and falling leaves

when they speak with human voices

they’re forced by lack of empathy & understanding

When Cloud-eaters can’t reach the sky anymore,

they become blue, vast and empty themselves.

The color of bruises show up on their skin.

From midnight black to crimson mornings,

all shades of bright and dark.

Their hair turns to star light;

fingers freeze into wooden resistance,

just like bare branches in a winter sky

Cloud-eaters sing, but not with the voice of songbirds,

not with the whisper of wind moving in tall grass or lush trees.

Their melodies crack like thunder,

they sound like ice shattering under force of a river,

like snow falling on rime.

Squeezing. Pinging. Chattering. Screaming.

Breaking. Exploding. Chirping.

Until they used up all the clouds could give them.

They gave all to their dream of hot summer sky

crystaline blue with cotton clouds and baaing sheep under them.

No hurting, only warmth.

And once they’re empty – it rings aloud in them.


pic by author

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