Work Text:
I - Petrichor
The man in red slowly encircled the rim of his mahogany desk with his finger. He gingerly lifts his finger to the crimson light penetrating the windows like a thick treacle of blood seeping from a freshly cut artery. His finger was pale in comparison to even the lucid moon that provided the smallest etch of sanity to his everyday. The man forced his neck to another direction, staring intently at the tapestries that lined these bastion walls. They depicted gods of the lands. The gentle gods of the skies, those to blame for that putridly beautiful petrichor smell that invades his nostrils whenever the rain beats down on the drenched earth below. The window was scattered with the portrait of scattered fingerprints from countless hours of tracing raindrops that race each other like horses.
He smiles. What a pleasant memory. The man in red was happy. If only for a moment. He lay dormant in his abyss, holding his light, the lamp of an angler fish. A pain indescribable shot throughout his chest. The realisation, no matter how unpleasant, would make no difference. He welcomed himself back into his suffering with a quaint wave. He lay on his eternal bed of rest.
Rain Before Petrichor
The blood drenched tapestries
Tell tales of a man, a man in red.
He sits at his desk, before the grand window
Blood crystals of light stabbed at his eyes-
Unused for days of long.
The putrid raindrops fell to the rhythm of the man's playing-
His pale fingers pressing each key like a crying devil.
He, dormant in his mind, laid comfortable
Even in self inflicted abyss.
He, abyssal author, held his light.
His chest felt pain unimaginable.
Suffering welcomed him home-
Quaintly waving.
He laid upon his bed of rest-
Smelling the scent of rain before petrichor.