a vagrant tishbite and spiderdust lust; the shimmy of some spellbound kiss ought to have saved her from the cruelty of tedium on any blistering summer's eve.
but it didn't.
her veins twinged, fluttershy starlight by night; the crest of a hope meeting its dying claim. hers was the forgotten soul, perishable and cobweb splayed, fretting in its sleep — periwinkle the twinkle of a laugh with lover shared, but rued for its careless promise.
how long must she continue to toil?
the birdsong of ambient yen wrapped tightly around her, clutching the despondency that lain deep within her throat - bloodstained lace enshrined with twine strewn among the forest. it wasn’t going to give her up so easily, although she crinkle sprinkled glittersilver tears into confessing her story:
a tumble down to the brown wet dirt of an undead specter bartering with the devil over nuances of lost will.
and with a great and fearsome clap, the furiously hellbent against her sprang from the gallows’ desire misfired into the carrion of her patience, gulping it whole. as the angels wept she slept while monsters schemed and foiled — yet never managed to fully extinguish her verve; the many suns within and beside her:
sprightly flight across the galaxy like fireworks spritz orange soda against an ebony of space without looking to see why.
will she be imprudent?
somehow she was always prevailing amidst the midnight of her sorrows but that delusion wouldn’t protect her in the face of corporeal injury, for vultures descend quickly upon nudity among friends — dissecting the sinew, clawing the trust until nothing remains but cosmic dust rust.
…and the moonset cast its last haunted lonely of phosphorescent pallor into the mouths of the greedily mysterious as though only furtive hearts understood the ache of surrender like she did.
it was not to be a gentle night or an impartial one.
because to rouse herself from slumber she would need to hurl all translunary operas from her mind and loose the damned of their bondage or else fling transylvanian fiends into the inky regret of an enduring memory without so much as a moment’s hesitation.
and her hands — dervishly impertinent to the enmity of woe, must sync to the sapphire spangle of her eyes, glinting the ashen, threadbare and obtuse into banished oblivion — thus, rending diamond skies of shadow bordeaux on her lips in the dawn as it’s peaking awake! to start seeking ambition elsewhere now:
where the orchids bloom and the bow of kaleidoscopic fortune is plucked tight — shot once and again for good measure — howsoever it snaps back — as though lipsuck struck in the heart by a nascent star pulsing electric daylight into her brain so she will wake up.
wake up and move.
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