[seasonal event] out of the clouds

MELITA

If only he knew and understood that she was free because she had naught else: the burdens, the mercurial efforts, the tumultuous tempests roaring against her mind were unchained and released, badgering against her core, but she couldn’t let them stop her. She couldn’t be ceased. She couldn’t be tangled. She couldn’t be strangled by the noose, by the temptation, by the enticements of lingering in the pinnacles of snatching, awaiting void, eager for the moment, the instant, the second, to consume and devour her whole. So the youth reached for the stars, galaxies, and suns, hoping that her ambition and aspirations would be enough, pleading that her determination and resolutions would forge her path.

But she managed to snag a grin for him as she reappeared along the surface, as she stretched out her newfound alms. “Not red,” she agreed and mocked, a laugh chiming while shaking her head, her wet locks were fronds of crimson, crimson, crimson, not blood or ichor, but enriched depths of fire and sonnets. At his inquiry, she glanced down at her ivory chemise, finding it was now courted a rosy, pinkish hue. “Looks like it,” she shrugged, indifferent to its poor plights and stains. But then his next inquiry was sported and contorted with play, with endeavors, with pursuits that his quiet, aloof nature didn’t seem to have appealed to moments before: so she took it with a winsome grin, with a feral smile, with a savage intonation. Blind leading the blind, the curious leading the curious, and perhaps, fortune favored those bolder steps and ridiculous, silly notions. “I’ll try if you do,” then she winked, lowering herself, body absorbed by the pool again, so her mouth touched along the water, either awaiting disapproval or agreement.

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