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ZABA (in prose)

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It is dark. You can see leaves, vines, the faint shadow of a wing in the corner of your mind. The earth beneath your back is honeyed and welcoming, and the strange claws that skitter across your face and through your mind are so... familiar.......
you’ve been here before.

Somewhere, a storm brews. It is fed not on rain and mist, but unkept promises and vengeance ... you exist as through a dark glass, a trance, consciousness doubled - alive, surely, but puzzled at this new state, this hypnotic paralysis. A haze of dark promises, and yet you feel, passionately, and though you feign detachment, they always, always know... they are you, aren’t they? Or they were. What is the difference now.

A box opens. A corner of the veil is lifted. Rain begins to fall, and you open your mouth, obedient, as cocoa and honey pour down your throat and drip from your mouth like sap from a carved tree. Suffocating you - but oh, so sweetly. Hands reach up to drag you down, and you give in, welcoming their tender grip, the promises that they whisper in your ears...
You never knew that drowning could feel so good.