11 Feb

The old maiden cried in front of it for many nights and many days and out of her frozen tears the vitreous furies have spun a web across the cursed chasm between this world and theirs. Now the interloper feels at home staring into her eyes, staring at her flesh, drilling imaginary peepholes into her soul.

Nowhere is this fragile creature as comfortable as in her mind. Sweet oceans of longing for the selfish love lost and found and lost again of long gone beauty. Bitter gales blowing the parched leaves of spurned love. Gargantuan canopies of brooding loneliness, rolling like clouds chased out of paradise.

‘Oh, the warmth of home’ the mirrordemon-nomedrorrim sighs.

And so, the master of imagery cradles the favoring light, bends the straying curves and sculpts together the earthen colors of an underworld rainbow.  A painter of unholy talent, yet most modest in his claims for reimbursement.

The hours pass, and the spinster cannot take herself away. She … she used to be much plumper, did she not? For what other reason could that young knight have spurned her? Her face? That ripe blossom of exquisite fruitiness? Could not be. Or perhaps her lips? Where they too dry the first time they met? Impossible! They ooze glistening desire, moist as a peach, sweet as a pear, hungry like the wolf …

The mirror comes alive now, oh, how it all comes back – that faithful night when he came in at the ball, floating in on a magic carpet of women. Their fluffy dresses billowed around him like waves in a tide of lust as they chirped around him. But love speaks true and he will not stay deaf, no, this time he will hear his nightingale call above the cawing of those pink jays.

He turns to her. He smiles. His eyes burn with love and desire. He comes to her and bows his head. He stretches out the most elegant hand for the most elegant invitation to a waltz nobody will forget. He pulls her close to him and his fragrance hammers her heart.

They waltz, the foolish maiden and the illusion in the mirror as the prince in her head takes her around the hall,  around the castle, around the world in spinning circles, takes her in his arms and to his bedroom. He opens the door and they step together out of reality, him crawling on his serpentine belly, her holding his long hooked claw like the most elegant hand, drawing circles across the bridge of her frozen tears, slowly slipping towards the quartz hive to feed her to the Everblooming Mother, whose crystalline roots turn all the world’s pure hearts into compost.


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