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09-08-2015, 06:01 PM
Fairies and pixies of the midnight oils, cast amongst a blackened canvas, a sable soil, drenched and souses and covered in the Stygian brew, molded into the finesse of another time, another place. Where decadence scoured and contorted, they shrouded and veiled beliefs, virtues, essences and passions of wonder, of beneficence, sprinkling their tidings, their fortunes, through the foils of the flawed, the cracked, the torn, the broken. Even when their bottles seemed dry and empty, even when their vessels seemed absent and absconded, they drove onward, through damned slates and condemned fibers; flecks of the gilded, the anointed, the consecrated. Too persistent, too determined, too resolute to mull over the whys and the hows, they continued on in pursuit of finery, of benevolence, of pulling the condemned away from their tethers and shackles, a wholesome pulse, a charitable demonstration of the luminescent, of the fey, of the nymphs. One ivory and cunning, one slender and sienna, furnished and lacquered in the hues of shadows and the blistering mayhem of another evening’s end – rushing, striking, streaming, and dancing amidst the dreaded doldrums of more fallen souls. They twisted, they turned, they masqueraded, parts of waltzes and portraits and paintings, a background muse, a setting’s goddess, a set of queens for the thistles and the moss, scouring the hills, the plains, the ice, for a sign. Beneath the dawning moon and the glittering stars, their eyes sank to the crushed frames, to the familiar beings, to the crippled, broken particles, and the mare’s once distant smile faded away to nothing, nothing, nothing at all – no blessings here but the promise that death was not yet burdening their walls. Her eyes shuttered from one to the next, the tidings of purple and black, the sweeping hands of alabaster and ebony, the awareness of who was who sinking and simmering though her mind. Though she dared not ask, even as she softly tread past their forms, on wings of dulcet and motions of petals, her mind was filled with anxiety, with alarm, with the rush and the anguish of calamity stinging over their hides. How? Why? To what end had they meshed and molded and been so torn, so rankled, so rattled? Imogen, lost and muddled, merely crooned a distant lullaby, stringing them together through the void, through the smoke, through the twinkling, haunting constellations – Lena sang then, full of love and full of hope and full of things so often forgot of in dreams. She glowed amidst the parallels of time and space. She gathered the whims, the speculations, the lush rolls of hours and minutes, seconds and hands, spun them so tightly, so vividly, they clocks may have spiraled amidst the doom and gloom. Her eyes closed, her lips hummed, her words became naught more than precious lullabies and sweet, melancholy threads, painted and stroked in carnations, in figs, in daffodils, close to her heart and curled amidst her chest, threading through the starlit abyss to heal those she considered precious: friends, companions, comrades. Ashamin, gentle and serene, Zandora, vigilant and eager. The Songbird lent her voice, her enchantments, her absolutions, so they could live again, whole and free and unburdened. She dared not cease until they told her, until they said all was well, until they awoke from their grim, barbaric trances. her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
