| Posted On: | 2005-08-08 00:00:00 |
Starlit, crystal gazing firebird in the limelight, in the void of brigid. Surrounded by fireplaces and warm smiles. An ice pick erected through the pink cloud and through the hearts of a thousand, speaking something of a placebo, a hope behind the shadowed wall. Their hearts are freezing and boiling. The water sparkles in it's force, such a passive deity it cannot phase you. It's beauty ignored. Their wounds were rubbed in salt, internal fire in the core. They thought they'd know the dying pain... the hermits green cloths, old and plain. Firebird save them, lift them from the ice dagger, melt it into Annwn. Leave the trees... they're too old to be visible with sun visers. Something of a fairy queen they're said to be. It's that song to them you must sing. Let not one die alone, the maiden, the mother, or the crone. but T'was the maiden who died alone, and the december snowed flakes of blood, so beautiful against the suffering dove's cheek, just metres away. It dried, but never refused to stain. No circle to protect the asteroids burning through bloody space.
