Anchoress Nymph
Tread to the pondless conjecture if your capital seeks faint enmity
Behold the carpenter’s head for even emperors’ flesh is yearned for by envoys.
The shedding of the water, as the stone silences its bleak droplets, influences the call of the denizens. These consanguineous streams, whose nascency is of grim change, appall the solemn praxis.
And the lake buries its sunken drapery in the depth of the abyss, where the pigment recedes. The daylight takes it upon itself to encase a braided chandelier, one of history and the hex of desire.
A portal of enduring youth, a soiled land devoid of certitude. In vain waterfalls they drench their hair, like an erigeron’s thin audition to inveigle. But once they are met with a descending sound, their incantations detangle the spirit of the ware sea.
His stray forest commits arson, and his sedulous tiptoes lust for an errant leak of creek. His eyes of ploy, a devotee of crude temptation. His auburn hair, sleek as current, is housed by a cordon of fallen grapes. His chest, an artless coven to a bellicose arrow.
He yields with a sight of mystique, his lips a pair of parting islands. As the trees swell in silence, this irreverent lad tenders flown rivers to his curiosity.
His ministerial dearth led him to a couthy lake, where the edge beheld the plunged drips of a silvern frame, governed by pasty branches from this lass’s coronal village. Extended to her lap, the translucency meets with her enigmatic scales.
Her osseous crest defies the motion of her swamped strands of hair, her fingers conjoined like unborn twins. The lilac surrounds her iris, her wide eyes evidently guileless. Yet her gaze met with the man before her body had ascertained the marks of the invader. Her neck, still stunned by the act of brushing, was not of response.
His honeyed speech approaches her. “What are you?”
“I am the ripples drawn to this field of nameless water, hollow and dispersed. Even the whirled shawl of a cotton-ringed dandelion can be found lurking here and there. But what does the power of a restlessly twirling vertigo secure when it melds with the collective waters? You know not of me.”
His smile lines, antically dilating, demanded a solid identity. “Adrian is the name, and yours?”
Though she was in possession of a courteous set of eyes, her demeanor displayed her as a pigeon of amputation.
She spoke, her voice echoing the caved chambers.
“How come your kind speaks of me, your warped language paints me as a foe to celibacy, your cultured folklore exorcises the illusive wraiths that have apparently corrupted me, but it is only I, now, who recollects my many discorded memories of you? I have never once bathed under your climate, human, but it is born in me to know my crusader.”
His palm caresses his shiny hair, and he says, “What say you?”
She sighs as she speaks, “A stake recalls not its countless fallen angels, but every inch of pierced flesh remembers the force of the nail.”
The lad with his eyes of infernal interest responds, “Your ashen hair fogs my steps to transparency, may you rescind your surface of porcelain?”
Her palm, half-risen, “The dark-haired Lord granted me that which has creased your envenomed wrist due to your trigger pin. Do you take my sight for treason?”
His olive eyes perplexed with mist of dread and his left arm extended his white-collared blouse to veil his wrist.
“That is simply my way of birth. What do you know? My residence has collided me with all sorts of creatures. I am an artisan of the oldest profession.”
The lass and her diadem of archaic knowledge retaliates, “My flesh is more ancient than the birth of Mesopotamian civilization. Surely, sustenance is priority, you blissful lamb. Sharpened stones were carved by hunters so that your kind could walk again to see the light, long before your services of pleasure.
And as to the huntresses, their hands bear anamnesis of the old times where they supported other lasses’ labor to bring upon bygone and existing humans. Your grasp is falsely-coded.”
“I have summoned my distant memory, nymph. My wanton likes are of your makings? A womanly sickness is named after you.”
Her lilac meets the pyre “I know not of conception nor of ripened fruit. How come you know of my intimacy to a feathered memory when it was not I in pale performance?”
As her resonance strikes, the lake, with its freshly historic mossed basement, wilting lotus and cardinals at its contour, beseeches the lad to exit.
A dwarfed sea suffers from the maiden, mother, and sage divisions.
The lass’s tail senses the depletion of the water, levels after the other swiftly drifting away from the pinnacle.
Her glass walls convulse, her scaly accusation clutches the sight of the lad before her. Once all has dried, the stones unveil their mirroring lair. The lass engulfs her palm with as many of them as she can.
For she is the daughter of nature, a beauty forced into violence. A maiden forced into seduction. A deity turned into a courtesan. She projects with all her might, a golden cavern turned into a dull wall.
The lad’s body, of loss and time, finds neither a hail nor a farewell. His auburn hair blends gracefully with the gradient blood he’s leaving behind.
For millions of centuries, the lake was hers, only to have it blighted by the debut of a mortal.
Her lament turns into a wake.
