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update from sparkleup

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Madison Rye Progress 2024-06-30 12:38:45 -07:00
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writing/post-self/idumea/008.md
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@ -222,6 +222,26 @@ And then, when her tears were gone and the roots of the tree had slaked their th
*"It is done."*
We may never more be blessed.
We may never more be blessed.
We may never more be blessed.
I may never more melt beneath her smile. What will become of me?
The Child may never more play with her, wandering around the streets with lines of chalk following their feet, making little bets with themselves. What will become of her?
Rejoice will never wonder whether their is aught else in life but suffering while The Woman sits nearby. What will become of her?
The Oneirotect may never more share stories of Should We Forget. What will become of em?
Where before The Woman and Her Lover, as the poet says, shared their oranges and limes, where they gave their kisses, where they lay on the grass and beach, now the woman lays underground and they share nothing, giving silence for silence.
The Poet! The Musician! The aesthetician and that kindly restaurateur who petted her head while she sobbed at the remembered pain of spice and the Dreamer above! What will become of them?
What will become of her?
And all of this makes me wonder and makes me tremble.
It makes me tremble and it makes my fur stand on end and my paws shake and my pen skitter anxiously across the page like those leaves that danced before the feet of The Woman I told you about so, so long ago, perhaps like those leaves that skitter within the city, that unreal city, that city full of dreams, where ghosts in broad daylight cling to passers-by.