Heres what Ive been working on for my book CREEPING BEAUTY, PART 1: (The Phoenix & the Moon): Death does not have to travel far to find this weakened warrior. Cloaked in its many forms: in the guise of guilt, carried by carrions and festooned in the tendrils of the smallest organisms. Its patience is endless, as it knows it is the ultimate fate. Its reach is immense, cheered onward by the poisonous spores on the faintest breeze, the stilness of stagnant waters. Breathing in oxygen, essential for life, yet risks taking in death with each breath. It is all encompassing, rarely suspect and seldom sought. Always seeking, searching, leeching, burning; in its innumerable forms it creeps, sucks down to the marrow, then spits its waste, not to its taste, the life force of this shattered prince. Then, hardly satiated, removes with its forked tongue the life that clings to its teeth, refusing to let go even now, when there seems to be nothing left except the rot to be spat in its contempt of the beautiful flesh it had once been, an affront to this beast. These are the dreams which I have chosen to endure, since I am useless, incapable of quelling even the slightest pain so that he may have a moment of quiet discomfort. Here comes the Sun; dazzling, with golden rays and ringlets adorned with tassles of every color of the rainbow. These she tosses without regard for the blindness she most assuredly inflicts (Death is ALWAYS on her dance card, and he often comes a courtin)! He is on mine too, though not by choice or intent. She resorts to name calling when she has been grounded by the Heavenly Father (she is incorrigible): I have not ONCE been sent home early to bed! Convenient to forget those impish eclipses cajoled into playing hide and seek. But she does not heed my words, choosing instead to tease and taunt, blinded by her OWN malignant beauty, yet to mature into the healing goddess that is her destiny, creating pox in her wake. She often throws tantrums, her rage manifested as sunspotted blackheads along her pretty face. And oh, how she teases and humiliates me! Never a gentle word embrace; instead you are so pale, so plain, such a wide girth! she speaks in vain. But has any man (or woman) from this earth planted a flag on HER virginal soil? No, the lovers are all mine to boast. Her envy and rage blow solar flares at their face, and violent winds make those who choose to plant kisses chaste. No one would dare attempt THAT journey in haste! And the boils under her skin (yes, that smooth golden countenance she mirrors from afar, but look closer, for she bubbles and spits! Better than the craters on YOUR face! as she blows hot winds my way. At least I am not two-faced! And in my beauty is consistency. Men would share their nights with me, all night, every night. You are ashamed, embarrassed, to disclose you entire countenance, and when you do, you hover close to the horizon, fully rouged, as any painted harlot would! Wide load! Wide-load! she streams as she scurries to the west, where she will surely plot more humiliation and taunts as I rest. Sad to say, she is right! I wrap darkness around me in the form cloud mantles for security, so little if at all should peek out. I hide behind stars and planets. But my self-consciousness is long engrained in childhood, and cloud masks are not easily raised. It never fails: After a night of much merriment and dancing, spirits consumed and annhialated, I feel the shame as I wake and I must be punished for my vain mistakes. My warrior lies upon a bed of mulch and mottled leaves, not yet dead, but soon. (I see the carrions and insects, Deaths minions approach. I can do nothing to impede their way. They are determined, sensing the decomposing bouquet at Deaths doorstep, where he has chosen to lay.) I cannot stay and watch this imposing melee. Tainted, torn, unwanted(?) and shorn (for my once youthful coiffure has withered with age), I retreat in darkness, (for he has asked me to stay away); wishing I had never been born.
Posted on: Thu, 15 Jan 2015 02:28:33 +0000
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