The sun was on her face and in her mane, radiant and obliging, caressing and holding, and for just a few moments, she was at peace. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scents of spring; the little wispy vestiges of blossoms and blooms, the pathways captured and enticed by shoots and saplings, the fluttering of finch wings as they descended and sang. These were moments to cherish, with nothing and no one barbing, pressing a thorn in her heart, in her side, in her ear, where her memories didn’t wash over with tangible, horrifying things, where her aches and pains were varnished over with the nuances of dawn and morning. The nymph wanted for nothing but those pinnacles of serenity, for tranquility to nestle itself down into her shoulders and bones, for horrors and eldritch titans to cease warring themselves over trifles and meaningless pursuits. So she felt them, dancing there on the bend of time and space, drifting in and out of heavenly, garden borders, blessed and blissful in the land of sweetness and song. The Songbird waltzed for no one else, simply dug her toes in sand, in surf, in shoal, in soil, for the taste, the relish, of dreams and benedictions, walking on dulcet lullabies and quiet, enticing hallelujahs, brushing over harpoons and thistles, laying waste to chaos and acrimony. She stood the test of hours, minutes, decades, seasons, layered herself amongst the bracken and folds of shadows, tucked her whims, her mercies, down into the tender nourishing of her soul, and let them be awakened in the tremors of daybreak. The femme might have even rolled in the endless plains of green, composed sonnets about great, glimmering grass and the sparkling essence of their wild, elongated tassels, touched a few melodious notes about sanctuaries and sanctums; but her eyes were drawn to the sun over and over again.
 
She wondered if he was a merciful God. She wondered if she was being tested once more, on her might, on her dedication, on her perseverance and strength – if she was always meant to be so close, be so near, to something, anything, that she cherished, loved, and never be able to truly have it. She wondered if she’d been fated all along to be the token, the winner, of naught, if she’d been enticed by destiny and providence instead of carving her own path to calamity.
 
She wondered if there was something out there for her now – a purpose, a rhyme, a reason for why she always seemed to lose.
 
Was there another road she’d failed to see? Was there another avenue, route, trail she hadn’t noticed, and instead, wound her way around each and every folly until there were only dead ends? Had she been too blind to see anything else but -
 
Imogen chirped, alive and dashing between her legs, and the Songbird followed her through mists and clouds, because the world wasn’t meant for torture and deceit, she was sure of it –
 
She was praying for it.