The air falls in thick tangles.
Cerulean tendrils ensnare the limbs of passersby.
The antique woman strokes the scent of hydrangea
as it winds down the avenue.

Mary Winifred ambles the corridors of Farleigh Castle.
Walls crumbled to pebble and dust.
The trees have overtaken the rooms.
Branches seen as daggers, vines twining with absent ankles.
The danger of the Espritchian forest
Once remembered, one can never forget.

She couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket
Her voice, a warbling song of uncertainty
Sliced a path of bravery, brittle and easily lost.
She created her world of tapestries and stone:
Cold and echoing ancient halls,
The flavor of magic and firelight.

The littlest princess roams the mirage.
The touch of impossible.
The voice a misremembered daydream.
She is the women yet ungrown,
The sapling from which the forest emerges.

The angry angels stomp like petulant children
They would have more souls for the gathering war.
Les esprits errent perdus et des frissons.
The trees whisper their apologies.

A prison of azure and ash.


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