MELITA
Sometimes the honeybee girl just needed reminders that she was free.The anklet bangles and charms jingled against her skin as she wandered out into the midst of the Oasis, as she lifted her arms and spun, as she drifted in the glorious singsong of swallows and sparrows, glorious havens beneath the wake of the sun – laughing, giggling, racing, then pacing along onslaught after onslaught. Her movements were light and airy, ethereal, as if she’d been one of the fey when she’d been so far from it; not as graceful, not as poised, not as powerful, no wings, no immortality. But oh, she could live.
Fangorn growled and hissed from the embankment, and so she followed the trails and lines, eyes catching movements of mud again, giggling when the vampire gourd snarled at their incoming endeavors. “Perfectly harmless,” she whispered, like an oath of assurance to either pumpkin companion or the muck itself, poking and prodding at the assemblage of earthen loam and soil. She took hold of some in her hand, tossing it high into the air, watching it descend and cascade, catching it again, holding it to the light, to the solar rays, before bringing it back down to her palms, allowing the mire to settle into her sanction.
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
