MELITA
Melita was entirely enraptured by everything about the twilight raptures, enchanted, allured, by the graceful whims of starlight, by the will-o-wisps beguiling, swindling them aside, by the canopy of stars, emboldening her to find her way amidst the incoming festivities. She’d worn ivory, untouched by any other hue, no dirt, no debris, no canvas of blood staining or marring its sanction (a damned miracle), like the moon, like the lunar goddesses, like the breath and depths of the galaxies above, flanked and beheld with her long, flowing crimson locks. She could hear the Fae’s laughter, the spirited whims, the capricious undulations, and gave way to it, inhaled the merriment, the exultation, even if she couldn’t fully understand it; not of this world, but of too many others. She swung her basket around and around in her palm, flinthopper carcasses at the bottom, her present, her gift, along the top, flipped over and over again, almost ousted several times before they’d even arrived; a spring in her step, not savage, not sinister, not predatory or stalking, but excited, jubilant. Fangorn followed close behind, a shadow, a guard, as they made their way beneath canopies and boughs. Any elegance maintained had been left behind somewhere in the forest, in the midst of distractions and revelry, and she hummed beneath her breath, behind her teeth, along her tongue, conjuring a tune of her mother’s, gentle in nature, but proffering a story, a legend, in its halcyon webs. She waved to
In the end then, she managed to find a spot of her own, basket in hand, Fangorn at her side, uncertain and unsure all of a sudden, gilded eyes swinging anywhere and everywhere, wanting to belong.
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
