| The Wood Shell |
[Jul. 25th, 2005|12:09 pm] |
Her Silhouette face was aureate in the last leap of the wilting dusk light. Covered by an ethereal tulle conjured up by the mountain's eye, she debauched inward, aghast in her wood shell. The figures traced down the feel of the surface, a feel merely raw and earthly solid. Muscles, sweat and blue blue shoes, hedonistic theory authorizing. The sojourn of her scenery was meant to be believing, but it was offered sympathy, the heavenly frame for happiness.
Carousing, nowhere to begin, chilly stillness of a mountain high. Hollow sky, a chaos of flipping colors, bewitched slow pas sailing into a full darkness. Hear the stories, a legendary tale that mystified the lovely one, grayed greenness, thick layers of imagination.
She didn't quite remember how the wood burned to flying pieces, in the scrumptious smoke, smelling a lot like an old masquerade. Define me, define me, she curved her question mark, karma ajar, a Buddha’s smile. Only the freedom stretched to the unreachable edge, all night long, her crooning demands. |
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