Sands spun into twists like dreams spun from webs. The flock of newly fallen leaves like disjointed ribs flowing across the world. In a chamber of love the one who waited was locked, small and seeing, while others, unseen and shrewd, picked the very locks of night.
Golden stars were bitter in the telescopes and there seemed to be the constant stench of sweat, of dirt, of mulch everywhere Lerida walked. Scouring, surveing, presenting herself to the cusp of the world, ready to again be the balm between sea and sky. Slippery, sultry, extravagant, autumn's hair and peridot eyes, a colossal beauty in the eye of a hidden star called Viki, curled in a pocket of night, whispering the lady of knives towards her place of nesting, where sticks and straws were poor warmth to the static of her magic.
Lerida hunted without her knives and daggers, without her beauty a tool or a weapon. She was stripped of all her angles and majesty and but a pale, small woman who disturbed the warp of space and dreams with her shaman heart and timelessness; devoid of dark parts and little claws she could be not be felt but for the footprints in the heart on a night when it was too still.
Passing buildings like clouds did the underside of planets she felt the cosmic twitch of angels and lovers, of danger and thrill, each raping the other in her thoughts, bringing forth a anarchic lust for explosion; dynamite sung to the souls.
She stood on a board, cut of old wood by the docks, and with a crowd below, she sung with her feet bare and her eyes closed, with the tentative, quiet, pensive voice of the enchantress she was below the tide of daytime. Where the clouds swarmed and pink sky grew to score the moon, attempt, foiled! for the moon would shine and the blues would howl, she would sweep the last dust and clue and hint and take them to her breast and leave with the twilight her voice a sore, pointed, exquisite piece of... a shard. Anything you wanted it to be, rugged and dusty, filled with the clear, silver eye of determination.
In an alleyway, with her derringer, she stood. It clicked, she grinned, and the streetlight echoed her name in ruthless yellow.
Golden stars were bitter in the telescopes and there seemed to be the constant stench of sweat, of dirt, of mulch everywhere Lerida walked. Scouring, surveing, presenting herself to the cusp of the world, ready to again be the balm between sea and sky. Slippery, sultry, extravagant, autumn's hair and peridot eyes, a colossal beauty in the eye of a hidden star called Viki, curled in a pocket of night, whispering the lady of knives towards her place of nesting, where sticks and straws were poor warmth to the static of her magic.
Lerida hunted without her knives and daggers, without her beauty a tool or a weapon. She was stripped of all her angles and majesty and but a pale, small woman who disturbed the warp of space and dreams with her shaman heart and timelessness; devoid of dark parts and little claws she could be not be felt but for the footprints in the heart on a night when it was too still.
Passing buildings like clouds did the underside of planets she felt the cosmic twitch of angels and lovers, of danger and thrill, each raping the other in her thoughts, bringing forth a anarchic lust for explosion; dynamite sung to the souls.
She stood on a board, cut of old wood by the docks, and with a crowd below, she sung with her feet bare and her eyes closed, with the tentative, quiet, pensive voice of the enchantress she was below the tide of daytime. Where the clouds swarmed and pink sky grew to score the moon, attempt, foiled! for the moon would shine and the blues would howl, she would sweep the last dust and clue and hint and take them to her breast and leave with the twilight her voice a sore, pointed, exquisite piece of... a shard. Anything you wanted it to be, rugged and dusty, filled with the clear, silver eye of determination.
In an alleyway, with her derringer, she stood. It clicked, she grinned, and the streetlight echoed her name in ruthless yellow.