NO ONE KNOWS HOW TO TAKE CARE OF YOU
There a swarms of colors, swathes of scarves and smells of incents. Laughter plays like violins along every little route and in each corridor the Emissary looks down. Among it all, she is a ghost of the girl she was but weeks ago.
Shrines burn brightly for those who are lost, those who are dead, and those who are simply missing. Heavy is the heart that sits, barely beating, within sparrow-boned breast. Heavier are the golden eyes that have long since stopped crying for the public's eye.
Moira Tonnerre is a lost-girl.
She wonders, a wraith among the crowd, a hollow smile and gentle nod from her here and there when those of her court come forth. Their souls sing with glee; hers is full of dread. Beside a neatly kept alter the phoenix stops, looking to the empty surface with but a name. 'Raum' it says simply. There she stares and stares and stares. At last, Moira asks Neerja to come and bring it with. Moments pass in thoughtful silence within the sea of noise, and at last the Malaysian tiger comes slinking through the masses.
To her bonded, Neerja presents a painting - one of the latest the Tonnerre girl has done - completely in blacks and whites and greys. Sharp silver eyes swirl with emotion, they stare at her and she stares at them. At last, Moira floats her small portrait of the once-tyrant, the once-man, the hanged-man, the dead-man onto his small temple of remembrance. She dips her head low, a final goodbye to the man she first knew in the open spaces of a lake, and she remembers that he told her all he saw were lies reflected in the surface.
Moira Tonnerre wonders if that is still true.
Shrines burn brightly for those who are lost, those who are dead, and those who are simply missing. Heavy is the heart that sits, barely beating, within sparrow-boned breast. Heavier are the golden eyes that have long since stopped crying for the public's eye.
Moira Tonnerre is a lost-girl.
She wonders, a wraith among the crowd, a hollow smile and gentle nod from her here and there when those of her court come forth. Their souls sing with glee; hers is full of dread. Beside a neatly kept alter the phoenix stops, looking to the empty surface with but a name. 'Raum' it says simply. There she stares and stares and stares. At last, Moira asks Neerja to come and bring it with. Moments pass in thoughtful silence within the sea of noise, and at last the Malaysian tiger comes slinking through the masses.
To her bonded, Neerja presents a painting - one of the latest the Tonnerre girl has done - completely in blacks and whites and greys. Sharp silver eyes swirl with emotion, they stare at her and she stares at them. At last, Moira floats her small portrait of the once-tyrant, the once-man, the hanged-man, the dead-man onto his small temple of remembrance. She dips her head low, a final goodbye to the man she first knew in the open spaces of a lake, and she remembers that he told her all he saw were lies reflected in the surface.
Moira Tonnerre wonders if that is still true.
e-cho & tibet-lama | @ open | an elusive echo open appears
