MELITA
When her head finally rose, on the intonation of a voice, of a ghostly reverberation, her eyes glimmered on porcelain, on rags, on everything in between, nestled there before her, as if summoned and beckoned. A gasp loosened itself from her threshold, billowed along the air, intertwining with a thousand myriad things pulsing in her frame – that she was wicked, that she was unworthy, that she was undeserving, but that one was here in front of her – not bright and glowering like her precious Sun God (buried and gone; sacrificed into oblivion and dust). Instead, it was enigmatic and unknown, staring into either the void, the abyss, or Stygian pursuits; like ghosts and wraiths, like phantoms and follies, mercurial, tempestuous, the one Jigano had warned her about. But she watched, silent, awaiting what she should do – because this had never happened before, never never never, and her hands shook with the vibrancy, with the intensity, of those layered, lacquered moments, wanting to move, wanting to implore, wanting to revere. The mask looked down, perhaps the gaze from behind lingering, weaving, on the shells she’d proffered, and Melita suddenly wished she’d found something better – something stronger, something mightier, something that conveyed so much more, but for once she was patient, considering, as fabric intertwined and nudged, scintillating and sparkling, swallowing down apprehension and trepidation. Maybe determination had won out in the end again; old-times clamoring to the mettle, to the spirit, of her resolute, bestial heart.
Then the garb smiled, tranquil, forbearing, composed, and she didn’t know what it meant – didn’t understand any of it. Her hands gathered the shells, implored them in front of her, beneath the mask’s nose, thought about whispering, about shaking, about shuddering – Fangorn pressed against her knees, protective and guarding. Then, instead, she alternated into something proud and beatific, exultant and ebullient, bright and lustrous, a gleaming little speck of sun and fire, not falling apart in the wake, in the presence, of a deity. “Yes!”
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
