There's a song in your lung and a dream in your eye. (Perse)

[perse]

i wanted pomegranates— i wanted darkness— i wanted him. She’s always preferred to receive rather than give pain. She craves it, in some base way, and she does not know if she was born this way or if He made her so. However, there is a certain pleasure in picking at the mare’s wounds, however inadvertent. Caressing her fingers over blistered skin, pressing down onto bruises – it all comes naturally to the silver mare, who was birthed from a lair where shadows reigned and the air stunk of brimstone. He called, and I answered, says the shattered mare. Similar to her story, but not the name – no, Perse was chosen, hand-picked, taken away to the overture of her mother’s cries and protestations. (She’d ruined them in doing so, had no idea the family left behind was fractured. She isn’t sure she’d care, anyway.) She’d her bits of this story, though from His lips it had been a story of fools who had ultimately failed Him. Joscelin is one of them, then. The fools. (They are all fools, to Him.) But they are alike in a way, the shattered mare and the silver one: both creatures broken and remade by Him, one willing and one not. “Oh,” is all she says, mulling on the sheer coincidence of it – that of all the horses, she should find a sort of kindred spirit here, even if this one lacks His brands, lacks the devotion He deserves. “But you survived,” she says, coming closer. Her muzzle hovers above the fractured skin, curious what it feels like, and the question hangs there, unasked. p e r s e ------------------------------cordis x spyndle