Seemingly transparent, this order, though ubiquitous throughout. It is faulted in its omnipresence and thus disregarded contagiously: It is the performance of disease which dances upon a stage: So happily it infects and corrosively contaminates, itself spreading lovelies and mirth, a welcome visitor to this softly sterile abode.
Oh, how long we have waited for Pleasantry’s embrace? The fingers ever pointing to a distant tower, the castle atop of which a flag cowers as it waves: that slowly moving reminder of the impossibility of this circumstance, a wholesome charade at a party’s last teem. For it is assuredly worth this wait, a patient toil among the scavengers, the daily bread stale yet themselves forever grateful, regarding such scrap as a most meaningful reward, they say it: “Farewell.”
And so it seems—as it appears—the visage bright and recognizable, the smile known to me as love and radiance, it blossoming from the stagnation and blight, bringing with it a blessed respite and a moment’s peace to a stirred state. Is it ever a pleasing tale, a fortunate closing complete with a happy end? Or is this another time, one lacking the Conjurer’s conviction and thus sending the spirit spiraling down once again, into the maelstrom, a deadly descent into all that is distracted, to posit ‘protracted’, perhaps?
She was caught staring down the hallway, vacant and serene, and so she was quickly found guilty and hung from a tree: Therefore, at dawn, one sees her body slowly spinning from a limb, her own limbs now daintily dangling, lifeless and free.