I: Bestirred and beforehand was a looming silver; a lining mirrors two paths benighted of shame; every aching shame,
Day’s murky burdens upon bedsheets of bliss; a sighing darkhead weeps of curiosity and coils beneath her thins.
“Where has this fleeting life carried me?”
She asks in almost hymns; a spooning sensation nearing by however, no one is there,
To tempt a fairy as to eat the fruits; an epiphany rationalizes in sizes such a lioness could see; only she is aloft a lonely bedding of darks and latches.
It was her life’s odds in the wordings of a passage; illuminating a perpetual pyre regarding her desire,
Alas, there was a dream,
She dawdles through a prairie; a paddock reveals her childhood angsts and a furry varmint voices her name; “Floure”.
She is in the hen house embracing cotton animals; appeased by their warmth and wonders, whoever is the name of this one here?
It speaks in hums and the herald of spring; its eyes and the doorway lead into threes, fours of human beings with a cravat and a suit.
So much sagacity for such an elfin beast; this certain glance dictates a return, she notices peering eyes in the mires, “wonder what it is,”
Reflections of this friendly Weaval; purest intentions in their wools, an evening with the cyanides she was put in a deepness.
Reaching out with noble palms, anything of myths; equanimity! This dear Weaval is not to be of animosity but it is a friend; dear Weaval,
Kept away inside this emerald glassy box; her mind ticks like clocks in a way so familiar, olden as ever; betoken forever.
II: Alone at night; a cusp of magic (enchantment!) and glee, the witch of words, a sight to see; she lets a thunder descend on thee,
Rain come down; through the breccia of this dream and flood the firmament, this of holy water and witches’ potions, nothing but a crawl; Meccapythoness.
Changes in the levee; a lumbering note in the form of stellars tells her a story, many a widows rejoice in séances glory,
And sex was always with her; a sense of warmth to feel alive in this sphere of crystalline and gemstone innards; witch’s ball- fluorescence.
But there was a sadness in her nightgown; flying gleefully in deep blacks!
Harrowing affairs now; Pythoness of June’s rainy nights, death rattle’s Buddha kill- frown upon her peering face, Pythoness of death,
The magics in her chest; wide eyes of viscera and flame; what is left in the tiniest frame of death enemies in vain; a burden (mistress!) disconnect.
Words assume the sun; black as eve was the witch’s vise; Floure so despicable tonight, and the guise she can word; “never sleep alone” so desperately sighing,
Enemies nearing in her second sight; a damsel that was dead of all might, linguists of elves; beckoning machines of night- ever after.
Despite all the hells of this flying sea witch; a pawn, a plane delivers wealth, Pythoness insists her journey be gone, never ending shrouds,
And in this foggy eye of turpentine, a wish is granted; never ending journeys to never ending planes.
Something of a paradise before her mirrors; enchantment dawns lo and behold; floors of gold before her.
III: Whether she of sunlight dawning emperors’ lives, the wedding of widows sublime; beneath her hives, gladdest at nighttime,
And in her youngs of hairs and breasts, a noble flowing golden as Goliath rebukes the darkness; the dim leisures she feeds on.
“This is no sanctuary for the damned” it sings so lightly; guarded by the twins; reflections of heroism sink deeply; neverland’s gust of winds,
Surely in the midst, her leisures reform a tempest fine; dandelions of red and gold redefine enigma darkly and cowardly; cast out of mind.
So hopeful and warming, this sense of freedom; alas! Redeeming thoughts swarming of fireflies and forming such fantasy,
It is hard to look away, the light of the lanterns, vast array; eager tongues awaiting journey- misfits and mishaps affinity! Groove and sway.
This lovely acre stands upon plateaus, so gracefully and supine; Floure the wanderer behind, and the sun, mighty sunshine and shade,
Fruits forbidden of the darkest hour; only a fool would betoken, serpents in the pyre have spoken; to and fro the pendulum swings it’s broken meanings.
This is enchantment; granted joy in greens, whatever the destination brings, Floure the dreamer hopes and sings; a message from the Gods,
Remember the rods; she cannot mistake this definition for death, premonition and all recollection escapes as soon as she sees it; false perception.
IV: someone watches from the tower; glistening with humbleness and robbed of great power, hosing down however; soon to be prudent,
An acre fills with joyous waters as if the hangman brained a hurricane; the silent thin examines without a name.
Medieval themes begin to pour in, Floure the dreamer senses a nightmare; the figure appears closer, caped suit and long hair; mouths “beware the witch’s lair”,
“I thought that you were hiding”, Mother Nature goes away; Floure reaches out; oh the figure did not say, it is a woman born of May; Alafair Magnus,
Has come to this hauntress; this feeble leaf of flesh against the evergreens so merciless and void of presence- until now, the quintessence of being.
“Oh woman of whites, answer me an eager question; how have you became?” Floure sings as such a dame; loathing the shame of sleep,
“I am a dreamer just like you; flown from the deeps,” she says as Floure weeps; thinking all this time she was the only one who dreamed of the sun; brightness seeps,
“And to think I am alone; I am fruitless,” she sighs, “This dreamer sees a reflection in these reaches;” Alafair the mirror sees the beaches; calling her back to her home.
V: A time and place for such poetic grace; Alafair the Enigma and the peace upon her face; traces of memory and credence in thee,
Finally there seems to be wind; a vast nature of human presence from her eyes, there lies a paradox of some kind; flies in the space of disguise.
Dreamer rejoices as sleep fails to live; asks herself “What does this mean?” But her hymns are begotten; she starts to forgive this alliance against her,
Sleep speaks in ways only the dreamer can hear; Alafair embraces this lucidity; comes to and finds an autumn leaf reflecting of Floure; she cries like rain.
But in the humble dawn of awake; the two will see a sense in them; neither can say the other one knows; but both will sense a friendly ghost,
Floure the shedding light beyond the hill is awakening; everything she knows is real, what she has seen will mirror her life works; she hasn’t an imagination so vast in years.