The Ponds of Silver Tears
She pushes her hair behind her ears. They fall down her back, overwhelming her small frame, and effortlessly rest on her ankles. The waves gives the impression of a river, which water is as white as snow gathering under the sail of moonlite. It glistens like a silk against her pale lips, as if one could see right through her.
She peers from behind the red curtain and a ghostly reflection stares back. Its eyes are like foams drifting on the billow-height from old-spent waves by a lonely shore. It stares with such intensity, yet with such hollowness that one would find himself drifting into the depth of the earth. There's nothing in it. No remorse, nor a child's glee. They're just a pair of expose and nothing more.
She turns from the storm, the thunder roaring above the sky and the pounding of wind against her wooden house. She pulls on her sleeping gown and drags her feet to one corner of the room, where a rusty, silver harp rests beside a wooden stool.
It has been awhile, she nods. Since the tune of those beautiful strings ever sing in this storm. She touches its first string, tempted to stroke it into play, yet she stops and sighs.
No more, she whispers to herself as her eyes drifted away with a thought that sings in her mind, with stern and decorum like a countenance it wore...
She whispers...
"And her eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp light over her streaming throws her shadow on the floor,
And her soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted, nevermore!"
Poe-ing me,
Pararae
DATE:Wednesday, April 22, 2015
TIME:{4:28 AM}
COMMENTS:
Post a Comment