Bridal Wrath
When I had just fulfilled my seventh year around the faint moon, I found myself constituting a prairie of chthonian soil, a field of parching waters and a land with the appetite of an annalist. The records were wearing out of recapitulation, and the sheets were reporting an imitation of the parting hands of Moses’ red sea.
Like a lonesome-blooded sanctuary, I was struck by branches of vertiginous lightning. And the lucidity of the hirsute man inside the deep flesh of the ornamented glass withdrew its soldiered iridescence.
I have crossed the silhouetted secession war, and the bloodline of a saboteur couldn’t but engulf me with its string of pledge. All possessions were bound by the vacillation of the earth’s crustal plate.
And I awoke, by probity and admonition, into a dissected sclera of belonging to my right eye. If I were to rewind, I would cease the footprints of a slothfully crawling aisle of time. It had flooded not the iris of my ebony, for the void consumes the crusade, and death is a consistency against the risen blades.
I was told, then, that time was when my great paternal grandfather owned a beloved mare, and once upon the wise judgment of an observing vesper, the pilose beauty became conscious of the orchestrion’s rotation moving her dark bay legs. She was but a mountain memory of checkered portraits that were not of intimacy to her naturally varnished tail.
All those recollections of tracing his soaring age commanded her foreleg to fracture the portal between the stable and the hostler, the hay and the grass. Without a guardian’s drummed bell, she allowed her knee to position for his eye. Like any asymmetric war, his trenches battled with her artillery.
Yet flesh is not a counterpart to a piercing lead, both are vulnerable to melting but one can be forged into a revolver and the other is but a waxen memory fleeing from its own unearthed, vigorous warmth. Flesh is nature, but nature is lead; one antecedes the other. One is enmeshed between the earth’s crust, and the other is the extraction of that perilous element for the embroidery of a memorial.
I knew of his eye back then after her bodily rebuke. His sclera, too, held a coral sphere in one of the glassy sides of his eye. What I could not know, at the past time, was of how that violent passivity streamed itself into my inked vessels. For he, too, did not bear that mark from birth, and I am simply a cusper with an oscillating spare of rhyme.
The crimson site inside my eye has deadened with years. It must have been my occult nature that dismayed the barriers between the mare and I. However, for it to become completely washed out, like perpetual sin, a new mare has to choose me one day as her heiress.
I have seen my pellucid skin addressing the wired bolt of a newborn storm, and I know that infiltration webs not my exposition to this evanescing spectacle. But I am informed that the spear of awakening to this pinnacle is not for the likes of my nature. Thunder is an ordnance exiled from a tyrant sky, and I am a codex subject.
I often wander around an asphalt road, where a sieve escapes the definition of a mere net. The marble is discovered on the grounds of geological conception, then a sculptor’s partisan hands unravel the gods’ arrowed strain, only to be met by the immuring opulence of red brick. When the drapery is assured, to whose pledge would the marble swear?
There is tension in the assumption of creation and knowledge. I know not of the chiming tower’s systemic assembly, and the corrosion leaves the lifeline creases clandestine in the palms of a draughtsperson, but would they still perceive the stateless rings that render me an itinerate wraith?
They may keep veiling their speech with settler vernacular, but I have secured the architecture of that postulation, and I have vowed to a feigned manuscript to keep my resolve steamed into my senses. It is of faultless allusion to acclaim the emperor over the crest’s forger.
We are connubial beings with a fenced banquet hall, and all I can feel within me is the dethrone of forbearance. I have not permitted the borne deliverance of interval eon species to alter my course around a twentieth obscure moon. My mother described immortality in the defiance of a book, and not a writer. When you ask of me, I am the ink-bruised chronicle and a birch metamorphosized into The House of Wisdom’s shelves.
I am not a messenger, for the pyxis of fruits is inherently adulterate, and I am a bearer of slender plywood sheets, missing their annual rings. And no matter how many times you extend the flesh, even if it were the rayon gown you tailor as dusk sets its celtic blue upon your balcony, the bones seldom need more than searing flame to cremate its coal into ashes.
