Neige

The beginning

The trees, ever green, are bound in the frozen straightjacket of winter’s indifferent grace. All is a much longed for silence. The giants of bark and moss bow in weariness from their centuries of winters. As do I…as do I. Find me in a pearl meadow, just beyond those trees. The frozen juniper and foxtails at my feet, and no sound about my ears but the whisper of the wind. There are no steps leading to or fro, much like the many empty paths of a twenty year pilgrimage across this vast and agonizing country, to which I call little more than, not a spontaneous combustion, but rather, the spontaneous drop of a raven’s quill. Behind my blue, a restless film maker wallows in his perversion, playing his sickening sepia masterpieces for the audience to jeer and scorn, whilst his eyes dare to take carnal pleasure.

Act I:

The small child, laden in pink and pigtails, atop an oaks great roots, frolicking amongst incubi, disguised by the wild flowers in their hair. The developing, licking her wounds, knowing that it wasn’t because he loved her. The woman in the terrible red dress, a porcelain doll, lipstick smeared, running down the hallway of marble, the ring on her finger, the chain on her soul. Of sweat and blood. And so begins the symphony, the circus, and the circumstance.