MELITA
Oh; the notion spiraled and became even brighter, better, her memories of the scattered lanterns, the blaze of lights curling into the shadows and darkness, the hollows and hallows of the festival where they honored the departed. “That’d be great!” More lights gathered to honor them on their way, or for the ones already established into heavens, hells, and purgatories – wherever their souls might roam. So they could stay going, well after that specific evening’s run, glowing, nearly immortal, intangible, incorporeal, perpetual instead of perennial; long lasting memories rekindled again and again. The girl could always imagine it now – scores of gleaming, illuminated pictures, places and pieces of honor. Something to amount towards those that had been a part of their lives, molded, sharpened, pressed into their enamel – less empty, less desolate. And with the forging of patterns along the festival, it wouldn’t be a rift between Outlander or Natural, but something forged, similar, assimilating to the possibilities and whirlwinds of what already existed on this scorched earth. He only seemed half offended by her brief accusation, and she laughed again, bright and brilliant, away from the cold, sodden life she’d lived recently. “That can’t be the first time you’ve heard such a statement.” Generally, some might call her a pain in the ass too – tending to blend into impulsive, impetuous actions, nothing planned, nothing orchestrated with the slightest bit of thought, or the way her chin sometimes jutted upward, defiant and subversive over the most minimal of things.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
