all of me is damned. From earliest beginnings, my fate has been solitude- elegant solitude, elegant loneliness. I let it walk into me like a cathedral, down its isle- wedding bells sound in the secret place of my heart.
Phizarae Ephereia was weary, a petal on a decaying rose. Though she dreamt she had avoided the haze of hell with one deft stroke, the ripping of her body down to its molecules - oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium - followed by the cutting vault from one planet to another before lastly having these millions of parts hurled back together revealed just how incorrect she truly was.
Where am I?
Was it foolish to believe some entity had seen her scarred wounds and had kissed her till they nearly bled once more, allowing her to fly away on wings scorched to start anew? From the ivory bone of her core to the white lace dress that veiled it, she wished for something different; she dreamed of inciting her own metamorphosis.
She had once estimated she'd seen it all, from red and prodigious blooms only curated by blade to the moaning thoughts of a mind hardly capable of ruling its inherited castle composed of pale flesh and silver hair. Now as the soles of her pearly shoes leave their marks in the snow only to be smoothed over by the tail of her opulent dress, in a planet entirely foreign to her own, she concedes that she must truly know nothing of the universe's horrors.
Oh! to be plunged from her own understanding and twisted out of the ash into a far greater appetite, where the only thing she knows is real are the pearl chains that loop back and forth around the waves of her silver hair, the delicate white lace that forms around her porcelain skin in the shape of an a-line dress, and the alabaster tulle gloves she wears with careful diligence.
Where am I?
Was it foolish to believe some entity had seen her scarred wounds and had kissed her till they nearly bled once more, allowing her to fly away on wings scorched to start anew? From the ivory bone of her core to the white lace dress that veiled it, she wished for something different; she dreamed of inciting her own metamorphosis.
She had once estimated she'd seen it all, from red and prodigious blooms only curated by blade to the moaning thoughts of a mind hardly capable of ruling its inherited castle composed of pale flesh and silver hair. Now as the soles of her pearly shoes leave their marks in the snow only to be smoothed over by the tail of her opulent dress, in a planet entirely foreign to her own, she concedes that she must truly know nothing of the universe's horrors.
Oh! to be plunged from her own understanding and twisted out of the ash into a far greater appetite, where the only thing she knows is real are the pearl chains that loop back and forth around the waves of her silver hair, the delicate white lace that forms around her porcelain skin in the shape of an a-line dress, and the alabaster tulle gloves she wears with careful diligence.
"."
Phizarae
the winteress
