[ry0un0suke]

. . .

They hadn't written since autumn. They can't write or find verse in their soul. They can't, they haven't. Nothing responds to them. Why? Why! They almost died and it killed their will to write. A new decade, the 60th one of this century. When was their birthday?
. . .

Something tells me I am cursed. I have finally woven a dream no one will dream and I sit, wondering why I reached to begin with. Nestled in my hands, tailored and flawed, ready to experience and it was not enough. I have stopped the chase and turn around to see no beast hungry for all I am I- am cursed to run forever away from phantom claws and teeth that would tear into all I am I-- nearly died. I nearly died and when I run, or when I hide, or when I seek to be looked at I cannot find anything, that feels the depths of weakness so profound in me. As if I speak in silenced voice, yelling until my throat bleeds unheard pleas for eyes that do not look, ears that do not listen, hands that do not touch, I-- am cursed. In knowing this curse, I try futile as if ushered into insanity's winding, bottomless pit, falling freeform with my eyes glued to a waning, furthering light. If I write, nothing will happen. If I press in that seal, nothing will happen why-- does this continue happening?
 

---

Once the head rolled at a crescendo note at string's pull. Plap, plap, rolling out crimson tendrils onto the carpet. Not even a pin dropped. Eyes from across the decorated hall stared center at the once beautifully garbed royal beside father and son without that head that presented most of that beauty. Are they still? Lent on its side, hair scattered and lathered in their own blood, still warm, a stunned pleased expression, one tickled by the festivities at hand. So many people rallied in their celebration from allies to strangers and all stared at the headless heir, and cheered. 
 
Finally.
Finally.
 
Someone did it. Finally, no more must we tolerate their awful mood. Finally, no more must we listen to their baseless woes. Finally, no more must we put up with their wavering mood. Finally, no more must we hear their boring rambles. Finally, no more must we pretend their ideas are good. Finally, no more must we mask our disgust for all they are. Finally, in resounding cheer the entire room of guests in attendance for their celebration clapped, roaring for an encore if possible... so the head sprouted once more, delicate, sharp features in the midst of a smile, or statement, remarking the fun they are having or hopes for the guests.
 
The blade meets flesh, cracking beneath the surface through muscle and finding strength to severe supporting spinal bones before cleaving through the other side. Their head flies. Plap, plap, spraying crimson in its wake, bathing father and son nearby and those beyond the hedges in the crowd. Again, the head rolls and without a missed beat, the crowd cheers, wanting for an encounter. Eternally, it plays out, relived horrors of celebrated death during celebrated one-hundred years of life.

---

I want to put you in a cage so you never leave.