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10-04-2015, 08:18 AM
Lena I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars
The lithe femme, with her magnanimous heart, with her compassion and bounteous personality, held no reservations towards the promise of herd politics, with the crinkling, demonstrative, fervent edges of zeal and contempt. She registered their laments, their strains, their broken, dissolved hallelujahs and composed the art, the crescendo, the orchestrate, the symphony of her craft: winking, nodding, glimmering and shimmering with an elegant, polished light; fey whims and nymph wishes, reaching and plucking and stroking the fine fibers of magnificence. You look well,, a rush of memories, a finite glimpse into paths crossed and trails embraced, a promise rising, incensed, glorified, on revelations. “So will you.” Thereafter, the angelic chords began: she spun layers and layers of songs, trumpets, and cavalcades, an enriched, gilded, potent lacquer of allure and enticement – grand, fleeting, sweeping majestic tones, bewitching, haunting, a billowing rhapsody, a sonnets’ serenade, an enchanting rush into the world of nymphs and fairies. Her eyes closed, and Songbird interludes danced, beguiling down into the hallowed corners of haunted prowess, beating back poignant sores, vigilant pains, with the slightest whisper, the lightest flutter, of seraphic wings. Vigilant and guarding, warm and tender, beatific and grand, they strung airy, petal-soft armaments, wholesome and generous, combining and waltzing with Enna’s prowess, combining with hours and days and minutes and seconds, seasons and cycles, tempests and storms, the rush of the ocean and the golden snippets of summer, together, tied and anointed on threads and sanctuary. On spring’s waves she matched flying pitches and gliding tones, reaching for the finer webs of satin and coaxing its strings to pure splendor, rapture, reverence, and richness. On a glacier’s edge she wove taffeta and lace, puncturing decay and fierceness, the sharp, piercing, lacerations of fatigue, and bestowed absolution, sanctity, and sanctum, reaching and reaching and reaching until she could grasp no more, and the beautiful sway of the music, the elegant, refined oeuvre of ensnaring movements, ceased, ending on a mellifluous finale. Her eyes opened, Imogen chirped, and the brilliant, dazzling portrait of her smile floated on the wisps of air. “Welcome to the Basin.” |
