Black clouds are behind me, I now can see ahead
Often I wonder why I try hoping for an end
Sorrow weighs my shoulders down
And trouble haunts my mind

Despite the absence of divinity, that hallowed, hollow juncture of molten raptures, she’s blinded by his radiance moments later, bright, clear luminescence that remained irrefutable, basking, daunting, and overwhelming. She watched, caught in the web of alluring finery, beguiling warmth, enticing light that cascaded in an aloof grandeur as he cascaded his essence into the divination of ruins. Stared down, the nymph offered a bow of her head, curled it against her chest until his words traversed to her ears, gentle, obliging to her unworthy soul. Raising the noble head of her Spanish heritage, her gaze met and caught the strength, the might, the brawn of his, captured the small trace of a smile formed against the God’s lips, fostering her own enlightened grin along the primrose path of thorns and roses. Twice now she’d been allowed the opportunity to converse with the divine, the immortal, the neutral, the chess masters of the earth, and she promised not to waste it, to throw it away in a dismal, pompous irreverence. The fairy listened to the easy throng he contorted, enlivened, encouraged, as each syllable graced her with the foundation of her purpose, of her motivation, of her boundless, archaic courage. “Thank you.” Her words, silken, smooth reveries, wove satin from a parted mouth, exuded the elegance and eloquence of her perseverance and tenacity, fulfilled prospered sentiments, longed for opportunity to grant more. Then he asked, serious and compelled, about her ability to conjure the song, to warble words and croon lyrics that didn’t shirk, didn’t barb, didn’t break, but mended, healed, the laboring, tremulous sinew of the wounded, the ailing, the disheartened. She knew her answer immediately, had found it in the notes and tunes of the earth, in the silent gestures of Deodat, in the melancholy tides of her realm, in the scars and patchwork of so many journeys and travels, waiting to be exalted, to be told. “My inspiration was adversity.” She paused, never straying her stare from his, emboldened all the more into the stretches of the beatific, the heavenly, the holy. “Misfortune is everywhere, but through strength and perseverance, we find a way to overcome its knife.” She breathed, soft, dulcet, offered one more explanation in the siege, the glow, of light, sky, and air. “I compose from affliction to heal, to mend, and to assuage.” Seeds were sown from the clouds of annihilation, brightened by the shards of her beneficence, of her deliverance, of the tender embrace of kindness and compassion. She wielded the sword of morality, and swung it amongst the casualties of iniquity.

Lena
Sweets to the sweet