L E N A
black clouds are behind me, I now can see ahead

Lena waited, watched, ruminating on the delicacies of the evening, the fineries of finding another soul, soaking in the rays of the heavenly body poised along the horizon and hoping for a slight drop of absolution to break, caress, the cycle of distortion. Suspicion crossed over the other femme like unfortunate normalcy, the one of blue and upheaval, of cerulean and turmoil, mayhem laced across her brow, and the gentle sylph still remained, witness to venues and views. Why was their so much distrust in the world, so many aching hearts, so many punished by tragedy and anarchy, so many bowing to the cumbersome yearnings of avaricious whims and fanciful aspirations sullied by greed, corrupted and contorted into the void of wariness and misgivings? Her buoyant realm of optimism and confidence, brought forth from her own chains, longed to chisel and scrape away the abhorrence in souls, in bodies once too forlorn, show them the serenity of their palisade, of their potential, of their freedoms and liberties. She wished to unwind the hope in ailments scarred and fragmented, pale and indistinct, give them life, give them color, offer hues that spoke of rhapsodies and triumphs, not the dusty clamor of failure, defeat, murky traipsings that rendered calamity. Could they not see their own blessings? Could they not see their virtues? Their divinities, their goodness and moralities? Were they so fixated on the crisscross workings of the Devil that they couldn’t visualize their own capacities, forthright and unique, beautiful and breathtaking? Was this mare too consumed as well? Had she forgotten how to fly amongst the stars and breathe in the fanciful ambitions of youth, of folly, of purity? And how, she wondered, she inquired, she marveled, could she proffer this to her? The slip of her smile, the channel of her benevolence, the generosity of her ethereal, otherworldly grace - because she’d survived the primrose path of savagery, of destruction, of calamity and woe, and longed to save another from the shambles of its merciless decay.

Then, the femme transformed before her eyes, the gilded, narrowed stare no longer as persecuting, no longer piercing, no longer ferocious and clawing, and Lena eased the scintillating sigh of relief, smile still enshrouding, encompassing, the wholesome regality of her being. Softened, tempered, for now, the mare of ocean and sky prospered her name, and the nymph graced it into her memory. Larkspur, of songbirds, spikes and flowers, a name well fitting for someone assembled in muddles and jumbles, unsure of what world to traverse. Lena bowed into this rapture too, seized the moment of glory, of absolution, of softened chords to ring her own dulcet qualities. “A pleasure, Larkspur.” She meant it, with that lovely, loving, ringing nuance of sentiments ringing about the midnight veil, draped in honor, dignity and beauty, and she drifted closer to the mare, a wake of willowy, slender movements, silken threads measured by petal soft beats and fallen daydreams, until ultimately, she stood right before her, yards within, reaching and pulling the weight of the mare’s tribulations upon herself. The grin, enlightened and cherished, bolstered the luminescence, the glow, the radiance of the realm unto her and her newfound companion, focused upon the gold, the blue, the stars and the ice burrowed, melting. “What do you seek in the Basin?” Strife? Love? Hope? Ruin? There’s a moment for each, but only a path for one.