Look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under it.
Nomadic, wayfaring, wandering, wavering, from the devil’s pull, the Mephistophelean grasp, she moved without pause. A petal soft praise, silken shuffle of swift, maneuvering feet, she emerged, poised from the thread of lilies and persimmons. Like a Romani, she diverged and diverted many times over, to the furtive, specious gallows of Stygian oils and midnight veils, to the delusion of light and air, honeyed and candied fields. A restless genesis, pervaded with sacrifice and callused, cold stares, and heartfelt interludes ignored, disregarded. Again and again, the sonnet of sorrow and dejection penned the hallowed hollows of her life: but never her words, her phrases, her sentences, her movements. Where chill would permeate a wounded soul, settle into the veins and freeze the fabric of an entity so that it could not bleed and could not feel, she blossomed. A whimsical floret, she grew in the brine of gloom, spreading her flowers in hopes they would read the sun’s wide, warm halo. No one bothered to investigate this strange upheaval of behavior; an abandoned scion, unpolished, fettered and withering, suddenly assertive, sanguine, and unyielding, in spite of the cruelest junctures barbed upon her frame over and over. From wickedness, grew hope. From savagery, grew aspiration. From brutality, grew virtue. Perhaps, some admitted, she simply chose to embrace life, and what little love it had given her.
Eloquent heartstrings, like the taffeta wings of seraphic grandeur, harkened to the brooding earth, a siege of warmth against the glade of tyranny, damnation and debauchery. An act of defiance fluttered through its gaze, one armed with a wide smile and fairy dust, hastening to the elegance, the finery, of bestial delusion: coveting and polishing until the radiance of archaic design resonated along the darkened chambers. Through the flood of unkempt misery, the wandering souls of yesterday’s paradise and today’s solemn melancholies, came the aloft paradigm of bewitching, alluring cordiality; an otherworldly possession. Condemned before, but anointed thereafter. Amongst the laments and dirges, the keens for guidance, support, and love, arrived the tender plucking of dulcet lullabies. A soft croon, a smooth hum, trilling from the lavished, affable presence of a lost soul, given to pestilence but taken into the arms of virtue. Fostered by taint, but removed and ravished into the melodies of morality. Where sin scorched and scarred, goodness prevailed, covered, veiled from the cruel, morose indulgences of a vindictive creation: what could have been, what could still be. Lacquered in the boughs of benevolence, the harmonious, mellifluous conviction of an angelic creature drove away the monstrous contortions, creations, of unholy turbulence. She knew despair, tragedy and anarchy, but chose the soothing conjectures of something never given to her own body. Not bitter, not sullied, too strong to be buried beneath the ancient waves of insurrection and vile, fiendish acts. Now, she was a nymph, settling into the twisted glade, brushing against the feral indignities and remaining all the same, the ardor of life sliding, slipping, into her veins, in her fine, satin motions, in the beguiling spell she wove into the leaves. A touch, and it was varnished into the divine. A caress, and it was enameled into the beatific. To the heavens, she was forgotten, and to the iniquitous, she was naught, and so she bloomed where no one could see, blossomed where no one could touch, and unraveled from the taut bows of atrocious turmoil into something opulent, magnificent.
Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
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