She was cursed by Love once. Love, in the pale blue flaming chariot, rode up to her and jabbed his fiery fingertips into her eyes, blinding her. Love hated her. So he blinded her.
So, in her blind world, she felt her way around. At times she rested by the flowing brook. The brook flowed with blood, it lapped at her feet and tainted her dainty toes. The crimson in her soul slowly trickled down to join the brook.
Love chided her for being dark and brooding. He twisted his fingers into her hair, his fiery fingers singed her scalp. And her eyes bled with tears. Love was disgusted at this pitiable show of passion.
Her face was tilted towards the warmth of Love. Love shone as a sun in her sky. Then Love shone brighter and her skin burnt crisp, bones burnt to cinders. She did not cry out in pain, for she feared Love’s wrath, she feared Love’s derision.
Love knelt by her and spat on her. “My Love, My Love”, she cried, wretched woman that she was. Love paid no heed, he did not need to.
Then Love draped a dirty, purple rag about her and tied her hands to his chariot with a silky rope that held false promises of tenderness. Her head was bowed and she knelt beside the chariot, as it began to move, slowly at first then picking up speed. Her knees were bruised, she got to her feet and started running.
And then Love dragged her, along the slush of her discarded prayers and devoted offerings. The oil that she had meant to anoint his head mixed with dirt now, coating her skinned knees.
Then they reached the town square. Love paused, theatrically. His face showed contempt and triumph. He had triumphed once again, as he always does. The townsfolk cast their slippers at her and they spat in contempt. The women crossed themselves for finding themselves safe and sound, as far away from her as possible for they feared she’d taint their homes. The men jeered at her for they were angered by her devotion to Love. And for they never found such naked adoration in their wives’ eyes as they found in the blind woman’s. The eunuchs laughed at her, they berated her loudly for letting herself be humiliated thus.
Love then locked her up, in a dark dungeon. His prize catch – the unloved.
So, in her blind world, she felt her way around. At times she rested by the flowing brook. The brook flowed with blood, it lapped at her feet and tainted her dainty toes. The crimson in her soul slowly trickled down to join the brook.
Love chided her for being dark and brooding. He twisted his fingers into her hair, his fiery fingers singed her scalp. And her eyes bled with tears. Love was disgusted at this pitiable show of passion.
Her face was tilted towards the warmth of Love. Love shone as a sun in her sky. Then Love shone brighter and her skin burnt crisp, bones burnt to cinders. She did not cry out in pain, for she feared Love’s wrath, she feared Love’s derision.
Love knelt by her and spat on her. “My Love, My Love”, she cried, wretched woman that she was. Love paid no heed, he did not need to.
Then Love draped a dirty, purple rag about her and tied her hands to his chariot with a silky rope that held false promises of tenderness. Her head was bowed and she knelt beside the chariot, as it began to move, slowly at first then picking up speed. Her knees were bruised, she got to her feet and started running.
And then Love dragged her, along the slush of her discarded prayers and devoted offerings. The oil that she had meant to anoint his head mixed with dirt now, coating her skinned knees.
Then they reached the town square. Love paused, theatrically. His face showed contempt and triumph. He had triumphed once again, as he always does. The townsfolk cast their slippers at her and they spat in contempt. The women crossed themselves for finding themselves safe and sound, as far away from her as possible for they feared she’d taint their homes. The men jeered at her for they were angered by her devotion to Love. And for they never found such naked adoration in their wives’ eyes as they found in the blind woman’s. The eunuchs laughed at her, they berated her loudly for letting herself be humiliated thus.
Love then locked her up, in a dark dungeon. His prize catch – the unloved.
1 comment:
'bones burnt to cinder'-beautiful!
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