love is the red the rose on your coffin door, what's life like bleeding on the floor?
Velveteen shadows are the comfort, the shield to the world outside. The trees, the sentinels that guard the soft heart of the vessel, this vessel of mine. For those moments, that the sun had touched me, I felt peppered with hysteria, it rove my body in mock gooseflesh and touched me in a way that was both glorious and heart wrenching. The lady out in the light, she glimmers, as though even the sun does not know what to do with her.
Silver touched eyes glaze over, forgotten, moved on. I blended in well, a mixture of brush and leaves, of ink and bark. Ah, but my confines go unshielded for that fleeting moment and the lady stops, in that split second of indecision I scuttle, flinty hooves a vibrato, an echo against the hardening ground. It is to late to run, to flee into the shadows, not know she has seen me ever watchful in my quietness. I swallow the lump in my throat, a forgotten breath, and I slip outwards once more, a nervy step contradicting my bold action.
'It's safe here.' The words slip from my tongue, like the velvet of the shadows that drape my hide, and the coarseness of the bark, where their gnarled boughs sway above me in the breeze, hooked fingers reaching out, ready to pull me back into he confines of the darkness, where all is safe, all is safe indeed. 'What are you doing out there?' my fluffed ears twirl, like uncoordinated peaks, they bow and bend and flicker, finding the song of the dark far less enticing than the serenade of the light beyond -- a lark song, is far more melodious than the eerie whistle through the trees.
My form fidgets, legs stretching, tentative in their strides. I am still getting used to the mechanics of movement, it is far easier to simply stand against a tree, rough bark rubbing against my soft skin, holding me up, keeping me in the prison. But no one can grow in prison, only set free like the larks from winter's cold reign, they, they are not stifled by the darkness. My silver coin eyes turn from the inky blackness behind, and back to the glistening lady. She is not melting, she is still very much a palpable mass. I take the intuitive and step out once more into the glimmer of sun.
'Vaermina.' for it tastes as bittersweet as the bracken on my tongue, yet as right as the dew on the early morning grass.
v a e r m i n a
chantale x nykeln