hey megalomaniac; any

[Katarina]

k a t a r i n a Hey megalomaniac You're no Jesus Yeah, you're no fucking Elvis Wash your hands clean of yourself baby Maniac, step down, step down Step down The mist is thick on the rise of a saturated morning. It soaks the bark and drowns the petals of lavender that have bloomed late in the eve of a wicked summer. The mare, young and dark, squints the green bulbs of ehr eyes as thick lashes fall over their observation. It had been some time sicne she had tken a breath that was clear of dirt and ebris. The light of a brilliant sunrise would later burn her eyes and blind her for a second or two as she adjusted to the new world. The form is of Friesianic build, lighter and more womanly, but still retaining light feathers and long dark hair that stick to the pretty curve of her neck as the humidity is relentless despite the early hour. Katarina draws a breath, the roundness of her mare-ish form filing briefly before she exhales. She nearly drowns on the early morning dew. Old blood fills her veins, pumping maliciously, driving her to the field as she knows rhis is the way of old but the mare would not go easily nor does she believe in wandering relentlessly through land after land. She wants them to come for her, pay tribute, make her desire them. Katarina is not of these worlds for she has known a different time. There had been a time when the world was angry and driven. Men came from the nooks and crannies to seek their woman, squeal and stomp, claim their bodies. Katarina wonders if these primitive mongrels still exist. She finds a place amongst the tall grasses to stand with a broad form against the damp breeze. She waits for them to come.