Her slumber ends with her soul in fragile delight. Her dreams contained fair haired minstrels singing of young gods. Fierce, young gods wringing their hands with doubt.
Twas but a fortnight since her prideful lover had at long last vanquished her confident foe. Now trapped in constant silent sleep, beneath the dark and hallowed pillars of sordid pilgrims.
Her beautiful paleness calling to glossy bees. Still defending an inward nuptial mirth. She moves as doth a lovely maid, upon the skirts of a charmed and pious magnificence.
At last she spies his careless stride, taunting the casket of a gruesome death. He arrives like a phantom of lucid jest. His haughty and imputed pomp, can leave even cupid afright. Alas she waits for her balmy companion, perchance to grant her one vague glance. He ascends the rope of hope with mighty strife, bloody knife askew. She bathed in her zenith of joy, leaving her squalid doom, alone to weep.
-Johnny V.
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