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 had existed in solitude for so long that it had developed home in her soul, more swarming than the umbra which loomed behind her refined body. It hung on her shoulders just as her lavish alabaster dresses did (plausibly even weightier and more tangible than the delicate lace folds). Even though there was an onyx rose within her, she could respect what was before her: a nation of vitality, Halo.
Though part of the silver-haired maiden wanted nothing but reserve, eclipsed woods, and bitter gales, she appreciated that she did not lie in snow-clad rigor mortis, knotted and grounded as an ophidian, in conjunction with a decaying planet. She had believed so strongly that her weathered core was eloquent in death, able to disunite and retract with the pious purpose of a reaper, but death was not her power at all; it was her cowardice. Thus, the other part of her silently thanked the powers that be for the solace offered through unison and harmony.
As she moved through the citadel, a yearning ballad, a weeping willow, she made no move to talk to others. They looked upon her as if she hailed from a place very exceptional, between the realm of revenants and the universe of the living, a ghastly white horse; the fourth and conclusive of the apocalypse. They did not hear the full-bodied moan of her soul, only believing her essence mangled with theirs, fastening to them, a silver strand combining them as if she could shake it with her fingers and draw them nigh.
If Phizarae Ephereia were less porcelain and instead raised as a being of scorching heat and exuberant openness, would they have loved her more then?
Though part of the silver-haired maiden wanted nothing but reserve, eclipsed woods, and bitter gales, she appreciated that she did not lie in snow-clad rigor mortis, knotted and grounded as an ophidian, in conjunction with a decaying planet. She had believed so strongly that her weathered core was eloquent in death, able to disunite and retract with the pious purpose of a reaper, but death was not her power at all; it was her cowardice. Thus, the other part of her silently thanked the powers that be for the solace offered through unison and harmony.
As she moved through the citadel, a yearning ballad, a weeping willow, she made no move to talk to others. They looked upon her as if she hailed from a place very exceptional, between the realm of revenants and the universe of the living, a ghastly white horse; the fourth and conclusive of the apocalypse. They did not hear the full-bodied moan of her soul, only believing her essence mangled with theirs, fastening to them, a silver strand combining them as if she could shake it with her fingers and draw them nigh.
If Phizarae Ephereia were less porcelain and instead raised as a being of scorching heat and exuberant openness, would they have loved her more then?
"."
Phizarae
the winteress
