My Writing

Unsystematic have we managed our lives

Planetary navigation, unbalanced, no finds

You and me, chained to full bondage

Sun and moon, the worlds arranged foliage

An organs cycle experiences loss

For body embellishment comes at a cost  

It stiffens till tight

Bolts turn at night

Coggs spinning becomes stuck

In the dark where it struck

Systematically in tuned is our clock

Gambled every turn, its game called tick-tock

It's all ficklety, mockery, quick times a tickery

My hearts yearn for home has been cloned by mass trickery

For earth's possessions are deemed most fortunate  

The prize is an end to confused abandonment  

Goals plans come but marly to an end

Felt by my soul, a message it wants to send

Back to its source, to creation, true embodiment

All it learnt was organ in-tetherment  

My life, is it really my true fulfilment  

Or a chance to end material envelopment  

For my soul knows it’s true divinity

Back to a body it has no clarity 

Of where it’s been 

Who it really is

Why it’s here again

Only love knows all there is

She felt her thinking surprisingly stimulated her with ease when taking in the scene’s bright autumnal serenity. It was possibly the bare bushes and the shrubs sparce of greenery, which predicted the ever-looming winter’s season. 
This finalising end to the prospering summer’s creations meant a break to manifestation, and as the murder had taken place just outside the grounds, which had been a bad omen indeed, it would not bear in fruition this winter. 
The cascaded sodden leaves and twigs that had fallen from thin withering branches foretold this lack to reason. The season of fall foretold that one’s wishes and dreams could not incubate into the soil during a rain spell or bloom into vibrant blossoms on a bright summer’s day. No sign of life could be found in such a hostile climate as though the present impermanence had always been eternally barren that way. A place where one could rest forever, and therefore, nothing in existence could imply change of any kind because no seed had ever been sown. How can one actively murder and hope the deed would incubate and flourish into the world where it would be discovered? But bad deeds certainly came to Renton, and thereby perhaps foretelling seeds had been planted after all. But if not imbedded and prospered in the deadened unfertile earth, then what was the vivacious agency behind the murderous happenings? No, Cecilia’s involvement with the murder must bear fruitless. There will be no reason to repent or own up to it in any way. Its happenings manifested in a dead world when the act was committed and so remains rotten now as its surrounding had foretold. And yet, she suddenly felt an urge of prospering abundance, as she came across some little pinecones and acorns on the ground. Feeling uncannily invigorated, she began to pick some up while careful to avoid the soft and rotten ones that had been smudged with damp earth. To find solace and meaning amongst nothing was a testament in one’s life indeed.

As she was not wearing shoes but only stockings on her feet, Cecilia gingerly searched the rest of the room’s contents while careful not to tread on a nail, which could be poking up in the floorboards. The space was definitely used as a junk room. More clutter and assortments of old household objects sat against the walls. She came to a chipped wooden table on which sat an oil lamp, its glass well dusty, signifying the time it hadn’t been touched. Beside the open trunk were a pile of books with an old candelabrum balanced on top, which was also covered in thick dust.
The single railed bed and lamp were clear evidence that someone had lived up here and it made Cecilia’s heart sink. She had thought the woman in her dreams to have been her mother, but now she questioned how accurate this concept could be. This attic was clearly a space suitable for a servant to sleep in, not the lady of the house who had it in her right to sleep in the grand bedchamber and even authorise how she’d like each room’s interior design to be decorated. Had the woman in my dreams been a maid or a nanny? But why would a nanny want to bring me to the attic? Cecilia wondered. No, that just doesn’t make sense.
The feeling of the cold was tempting her to leave the drab and forlorn attic, but instead, and she didn’t know what made her do it, she sat herself on the floor next to the pile of books. Setting the candelabrum to the side, she began to take a book off the pile and once quickly glancing at the titles, discarded them aside.

She came to a thicker and bigger bound book at the bottom. Its cover was black and felt like leather and its title was etched deeply making it difficult to read. Cecilia squinted her eyes in the dim light and ran her finger past it; feeling the indents she read: Death Book. 

Cecilia stood devoid of light and feeling frighted not knowing who she was standing in the dark with. A shadow swiftly moved near to where she stood. She wasn’t sure if it had been her father or if it was the intruder.

With the first clap of thunder, the figure stopped moving backwards and hovered inches from the door. By the third clap, which was so loud it could wake the household, the other shadowy figure swiftly swooped out the door like a large bat into the cold night. By the third clap, Cecilia cautiously began to move towards the staggering figure, which fell to the ground before she could reach it. She reposed herself as she heard footsteps above and doors opening. But she kept her gaze fixed to the ground some inches in front of her, knowing someone was lying there, dying.