3 views
lost upon that lake.
On a hazy river finding its way into a secluded lake embedded in the heart of an ever green forest, where fireflies dance around a girl in her youth dressed in an all white gown sitting on the dark soil of pouring storm, cuddled in the mist of late autumn. Pale skinned and hair like embers bursting from ashes of a burning coal, eyes like emeralds and lips as red as the forbidden fruit.
Glimmers in her eyes told a tale as old as any trail seeking a destination ever traveled. Flames waltzed around like an image long reflected and imprisoned in the cage of an everlasting frame. Tiny beacons fleeting into the midst of the lake revealing araft blazing high into heavens, accusing god of its foolish fate. A man standing tall with a Stern will, engulfed in flames yet ever so unfazed by his circumstance. A fiddle in hand dressed in an old ragged coat, face dusted with soot and darkened in the time, his beard locks entangled and lightened in the tan of an absentee sun. With the violin in hand and a bow arching back and forth, as slow as one may savour the rays of a dying star before dawn he told stories with every note escaping his fingertips. She witnesses the single drop of tear washing away the filth away from the mans face, the quivering lips of him holding back the flood of tears that are never to be shed or words that are to never be said. Maidens face empty of all knowledge and warmth turns into the slight crimson echo of inferno. The tune melded with sounds of those long gone guiding the fever on to the edge of water, all knowing of what has been and what is to come, as sealed as fate of the lady of shallot. Underneath his breath the man whispers: sleep my dear, for you have now seen the shadow of your moon on sir lancelot, you have rested your eyes on the camelot. Now you must fair away from the broken mirror down the river of time. Farewell my Eurydice.
With his Sonata lost to the shattering quiet of night, the ooms eyes doubtfully casts about the flame, his foot qualms into hell that Orpheus returned from. The dame drifts in the fog of sandmans weary, as so was the will of fate.
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Glimmers in her eyes told a tale as old as any trail seeking a destination ever traveled. Flames waltzed around like an image long reflected and imprisoned in the cage of an everlasting frame. Tiny beacons fleeting into the midst of the lake revealing araft blazing high into heavens, accusing god of its foolish fate. A man standing tall with a Stern will, engulfed in flames yet ever so unfazed by his circumstance. A fiddle in hand dressed in an old ragged coat, face dusted with soot and darkened in the time, his beard locks entangled and lightened in the tan of an absentee sun. With the violin in hand and a bow arching back and forth, as slow as one may savour the rays of a dying star before dawn he told stories with every note escaping his fingertips. She witnesses the single drop of tear washing away the filth away from the mans face, the quivering lips of him holding back the flood of tears that are never to be shed or words that are to never be said. Maidens face empty of all knowledge and warmth turns into the slight crimson echo of inferno. The tune melded with sounds of those long gone guiding the fever on to the edge of water, all knowing of what has been and what is to come, as sealed as fate of the lady of shallot. Underneath his breath the man whispers: sleep my dear, for you have now seen the shadow of your moon on sir lancelot, you have rested your eyes on the camelot. Now you must fair away from the broken mirror down the river of time. Farewell my Eurydice.
With his Sonata lost to the shattering quiet of night, the ooms eyes doubtfully casts about the flame, his foot qualms into hell that Orpheus returned from. The dame drifts in the fog of sandmans weary, as so was the will of fate.
© All Rights Reserved
