“I love you,” he whispered, not wanting to be heard,
but alabaster columns carried his voice into the echo chamber of her soul.
It was a most tenuous link, a gossamer strand of négligée, that connected her to the inheritance.
Her bosom heaved, his heart gave out.
“Apostasy!” they declared – passion pigmented his veins.
They would never know, for in the land of the colourblind there was no red.
Her mood, already best described as faux-fain, stumbled –
the hedonistic pulse of daily life dragging at morals long chained.
A black snow fell from the heavens as tongues of flame cast long shadows,
ancient voices given empty forms of smoke and of betrayal.
(cooking the books)
The dasyphyllous wood grew tight around her, the shrieking wind quieted to a whisper.
A shadow pounced – her tender flesh, divine.
She smiles, a shattering flutter in his chest – commoved by the urchin’s tragedy.
He crosses the road, too quickly.