STAGE:
AIN'T THAT SWEET! SERAPHINA: WHAT A SWEETHEART!
BIRDS: THEY PEEP OUT THEIR GOSSIP AND LEAVE THE FRAYED HEM OF HIM.
SHE: DAMSEL (NO NEED OF SAVING) WANTING COMPANY.
HE SAYS TO HER IN THE TURN OF AN ELASTIC NECK (WEIGHED DOWN BY BURNAGE, MALE ARCHITECTURE AND A RAVAGED ANATOMY, BREAKING AS DO RUBBER BANDS, AS IT SNAPS, INTO PIECES, BACK INTO THE SKELETAL CLOTHESLINE OF HIM; TRANSMUTED AND TRANSMOGRIFIED-- SO IT NEVER ENDS--) AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT. THEIR VOICES ARE SO DIFFERENT:
HERS LEAKS SILVER WITHOUT A WISP OF ROAN.
HIS BURSTS OPIUM OOZAGE STREAKED STILL IN THE BLOOD OF ITS POD; LOW, BURNT RED, AND CRAWLING.
HERS LEAKS SILVER WITHOUT A WISP OF ROAN.
HIS BURSTS OPIUM OOZAGE STREAKED STILL IN THE BLOOD OF ITS POD; LOW, BURNT RED, AND CRAWLING.
I open my Mouth and look still through the Eyes of Oblivion.
The Lace on her is so fresh and vivid, young, it blinds me.
The Lace on her is so fresh and vivid, young, it blinds me.
"Hello,"
I say,
wondering how long
before she runs.
THE RESPONSE RINGS IN THE AIR WITHOUT SHOUTING.
IN TONE, IT WAS THE METAPHORICAL OFFERING OF A SCAR-WRETCHED AND FLEETING, BLACK HAND, THE WRIST TURNING ELEGANT FOR ALL ITS DUST AND MUNDANITY, UPTURNING AS TO TAKE HER OWN SOFT AND PINK-GREY PALM.
SHE WAS RIGHT-- HE WOULDN'T HURT HER.
IN TONE, IT WAS THE METAPHORICAL OFFERING OF A SCAR-WRETCHED AND FLEETING, BLACK HAND, THE WRIST TURNING ELEGANT FOR ALL ITS DUST AND MUNDANITY, UPTURNING AS TO TAKE HER OWN SOFT AND PINK-GREY PALM.
SHE WAS RIGHT-- HE WOULDN'T HURT HER.
AIN'T THAT SWEET! SERAPHINA: WHAT A SWEETHEART!
