MELITA
He sounded as if he were in a fog; adrift, hazed, mired, anointed in either labyrinthine armaments or warren munitions, and her head tilted, the water momentarily forgotten in effort to understand the unsaid intonations beneath the confusion. “Lost?” She inquired – lost how? Weren’t they all a little lost? The honeybee youth was most certainly misplaced a majority of the time, brilliant, allured, and spellbound, inquiring further and further until she’d delved too far, too fast, sought to consume the world before it did the same to her. “Oh – this is the Crimson Cataract,” the youth laced together on a smile, as if that explained everything, hand gesturing to the crimson water, to the ruby woven threads of cascading drops. Fangorn, along the way, had settled along her side on the embankment, finally recognizing Seiji’s existence as something other than an omen, a foreboding press of predilection. Her eyes and head shifted back to the object of her intentions, brow furrowing, nose wrinkling, as she considered her options. “Yes,” came the bristling, commanding response, finally pulsing and pervading with an obvious, emboldened reverie. “I want to know why it’s red.” In another time, another place, someone might have tried to stop her spirit of inquiry, the dastardly, deadly, ethereal qualities of her audacious curiosity; but they weren’t here. The daring roamed along her fingers until she dipped them in the intervals of vermillion and cardinal, waiting for the cerise to pool along her palm. Her gaze lingered on it, then lifted back to
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
