MELITA
Maybe, after a while, they’d all be able to pull and stitch pieces together: a remembrance partition, for those that had fallen. No matter the individual, there was always someone who’d meandered, who’d collapsed, who’d been rendered gone in their wake, before or after their steps into Caido. LongNight’s press was just one of the many fabrications and reasons. How many names, how many faces, how many symbols would rest up there? Would it be too high, too much, too far? Or just right, to stare upon those memorial wakes and remember what it was like to have those people, those wonderful, blessed things, in their lives? Would it make them cling to those they had now? Or break apart? Her mind wandered at the potentials, before they seemed to glide from her mouth, unbidden, her eyes bright despite the nuances and pitfalls behind them. “What if we could all contribute to some kind of memory wall? Of those we’ve lost?”Then she listened to the whims and contortions of Saartjie, of blues and pinks, of flirting vibes and whims (a giggle tossed in there too, with the ebullient smile hastened thereafter), heart-breaker, love’s savage. The youth strived to imagine a woman quiet in her rebellion, like a wraith, slipping through columns and shadows Sunjata couldn’t manage. “She sounds wonderful.” Someone she would’ve liked to have meet; the girl eternally audacious and emboldened, no secrets in her measures.
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
