Raising, rising, hands and shifting limbs attached, kicking up frilled hems white and pink, voices shrilled high calling down whatever ghosts could follow. And high fires burned past time trees one after another quickly igniting while shadows tickled feet and faces. This is no place for dance and song. This is no place for lovers secrets, palms pressed and lips moist. Remembrance in a trance, save those muttered prays for ash and smoke. Charmer, send the children home, this is no place for stories. Earth resurrected through the blood and skin of the trees. You inspired, said the eyes glimmering warmth from the fire. Rise, raise high bird, else I'll murder the memories hung so close to the heart.
fire
- January 16, 2012
- noxiousbohemian
- No Comments
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