Audaciously fingering the diminished hem of her sinuously slaughtered gown, a scantily innocent ripple of a spontaneous archangel's cornet chains long since frayed and tossed amongst the puddles of clouds, a garment hardly ample for such brutal, obfuscated heat, its immobile tears, shavings of a fastidious Pegasus' horn, a blind star's inlays smiling for the new moon, ignorant joy through the hopeless void of her customary night, I wandered from her downcast gaze to my manipulative hands, never loving her enough.

And she was wearing...white.

My naive goddess of a pretty underworld elapsed, combing Persephone's derivative hair with a brush of bloodied foam, indifferently content in attending to her queen. It always stained her hands.

Smoldered crosses of another's derelict crusade slashed across her flesh in a subtle surge of ebbing spoils, her skin blended with the burning of the insignificant dead; the victorious had thrown her remains before the unknowns' fallen crypts. And they didn't seem to notice how despicable it was, the sheathing of her now metallic heart upon the melted blade of a cowardly warrior, given as a shiny prize to an unworthy excuse for a sovereign's marigold rosary, nothing more than a varnished isle's stones strung on disfigured alabaster threads.

She didn't deserve that, condemnation to her compliant virtue within that corrupt palace far beneath the laws of light, an amply bejeweled quarry of marbled souls, forever trapped in the wake of a viewless balcony; what is there to see beyond nothing's nightfall? A gullible melody of lyric ardor once echoed through these colonnades where now she slowly quieted, a disentangled astral bell, stroked once too many times by the last remembered love's ache to turn around. It was never heard again.

But of course she did not question her own sufferance; it was for a greater good that she could not hope to comprehend and that her lady declined to vindicate, always turned her fallacious garland eyes towards the ground when she asked; what a thoughtless way to shelter her, camouflaging those legible jades with her own mother's unreliable lament.

Through this constant declination my renounced love grew to ignore such evidently frivolous desires for sagacity, losing her mind to the blackened luster of Death's favorite ornament, her mentality long since snapped into a locket she merely fastened. My child's duchess was but an eclipse; she refused to awaken the sun. I knew she could.

One might ask, why not look to the sky, forget the elusive splendor of the darkened, attic-dusted mirror, rather than, as the restless little girl, discover beneath one's bed the disguised demon bedecked in fate's swindled wings, find that the only reason one is forbidden to look into the because it was broken long ago?

I tried to tell her that, shade her from the monstrous lies that she'd been so convicted into believing, but she had been rendered too deaf to hear anyone, especially me, burying her face within the cheaply woven locks, threads of an auxiliary spool, the flaxen propaganda of her mistress.

Now she simply sat there, staring at her dishonestly clean hands upon the similarly vacant sheets, hovering between a state of spangled melancholy and a mechanical nonentity; I named my poem after her, the one I wrote amidst her silence, because that's what it was about, etched into a plain of sugared paper, the kind sliced with pallid streaks of Iris' loquacious nails, overlooked trails of yesterday's pastel letters still twinkling beneath my atrocious handwriting. And I smudged Her still drying calm.

It certainly was not the first time.


Author's Note: Yes, I do believe you deserve a bit of explanation. In the beginning: I did intend to say 'Pegasus' horn;' I'm not quite so stupid as to make an inadvertent error like that. Ponder it for a while. Sorry, my metaphors have proven rather difficult to interpret. Other than that: yes, I am aware that I am a hopeless Greek mythology junkie. If you don't understand this, take a fairy-tale adventure and discover whom Iris and Persephone are, Persephone in particular. While you're at it, can you discern whom I make reference to when I speak of the silenced bell, the 'love's ache to turn around?' It is another figure in Greek mythology, one of my favorites. Tell me if you discover who it is; I might even give you a cupcake. After I eat the frosting, of course...anyway, this is something of a foreshadowing; it is a peek at a flashback that will occur later in the story. It is from a man's point of view, evidently, one who has lost this innocent love of his in some way or another and realizes things...I apologize, my mentality has run off to some strange land as of late. I have some idea of where I'm going with this; (that will die soon, I can almost definitely assure you of that) it could make quite the twisted story. I have some later parts written for it. Have fun being confused. Sorry about my imagery here as well; I am quite aware that it manifests itself as random crap with no discernable justification or order.