MELITA
Melita thought she was very clever, crafting her own nuances of avoidance.In and out of the house on tiptoeing feet and wide berths along the morning breeze, clambering along edges and boundaries of clifftops, rounding down over thunderous branches of waves and turrets of crag; bolstering her bare feet across warm dunes until no one could chase and no one could find. Save for Fangorn, but he was permitted the access of her embers and toils, and together they spirited away from reaches of family, where she wasn’t sure if she was wanted, and wasn’t certain if it would be the same again.
Change was harsh and cruel sometimes – and she didn’t quite know how to face it. So she didn’t for the moment, choosing to instead twist and turn her head into the wind, sprinting across vast wakes and beelining for a cherished place along the tides. The gourd sauntered gleefully behind, vines akimbo and waving, and they were mutual spirits on surf and swell, until her feet touched upon dampened, soused sand, and sat along its reaches.
The vestiges of ocean spray curled her locks and made her cinders – but she paid no heed as her dress soaked into the runes too, hands beginning to form the strands of a castle, born and rising from the shore.
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
