Was she permitted to be so content? Set free, released from the nightingale cage, turned to gold in the sunlight, Lena was unlocked, unburdened, hastened to the sanctified creed of beatitude. Peace pervaded her soul, a luscious, lavished sanctum of repose, of good will, of harmony and glee. With a serene splash of rapture, a shard of reverie, a dabble of splendor, she was liberated from the barbs of rancor, from the shambles of vice and sin, from the bitter artifices of iniquity and immorality. Her heart beat a steady crescendo of carillon, fey interludes, embraces of the midday sun, caresses of the nocturne maladies, warm kisses of morning hues, bathing her in eternal glory, arduous grandeur. For what could remove her heart from these holy, delightful conjectures now? What could erase the bounty of her passing days, the tender minuets sprung from her lips, the ambrosial merriments poised from her motions? Encased and entangled in the sinuous, sliding sentiments of harpsichord bliss, seraphic euphoria, consecrated, hallowed Elysium – still composed, still collected, into the finery, the grace, of prevailing, bewitching, enchanting aspirations. She’d been polished from her weary, withering petals into the smooth, flowered love and generosity flowing past her soul, coveting her entity until it seemingly brightened by movement alone, waves of misery discarded, archaic divinity allowed to spring from within. Mellifluous contentment rang from the sway of her gleaming, radiant heart, and where monstrous calamities once thrived, they’d become banished, laced amongst a nestled patch of thorns, a crown of calamity, discarded and thrown. Driven to purpose, laced to intention, woven to ambition, aspiration, she’d been enshrouded in roses, in labyrinths, in mazes and runes where ambrosia and honey dwelled, captured it within her chest and held it aloft for the world to see. Ghosts didn’t come to snag at her airy, unearthly opulence, demons didn’t tangle her into the boughs of decadence, gorgons didn’t find and scorn her flesh into the distinct wounds of heritage and history – she was simply allowed to be happy. The earth could not stop her song.

She hummed in the Meadow, beneath the arms of an oak tree, soaking in the ardor of drifting winds, of violet thistles, of a lush passageway rich in painted chronicles. The lingering warmth of Birdsong and the lulling promise of Tallsun incensed her motions, twirled them into movements of grace and elegance, dipped the cordiality of her hymns to a paradigm of taffeta threads, regal intervals and respites before she swung swaying limbs again. Another followed in her wake, ebullient ivory bounding in seraphic prints, mischievous and wondering, inquisition after inquiry shaded by kitsune upheaval. Where Lena strayed, sublime and saintly, Imogen shadowed, devious and wily, altering any effects desolation and damnation would have scorched and seared. At a pirouette, the fay changed directions, coasting into the sun, surrounded by the melodic thrushes of songbirds, relishing in the taste of her own trill as it warbled, crooned and murmured against spring’s sonnets and verses. At her hooves, the kit chirped, and the kingdom felt the swift turn of elation sparkle against the twist of Lena’s lips, the enlightened creed of so many heart-spun convictions. A smile to blend hope, tranquility and serenity into one glorious moment, one illustrious snippet of time, where the world didn’t crash, didn’t burn, didn't bleed, around her.

[Open to any and all.]