Soft is the smile crawling across that porcelain façade, petal bright and supple. Wearily she traces the secrets of time across that liquid surface, reflective as a mirror, chill with winter’s lust. Darkened sable, as bottoms of crystal springs - that reflective sepia rich with surreptitiousness the earth murmurs on the wind. How bright the verdant foliage clutching the cool flow.
The light of that smile never reaches those sorrowful orbs, dulled darkened and burnished. Slothful that figure clambers into view, removing all hints of humor drearily resplendent upon that visage.
Narcissus didn’t fall in, he was pushed…
The ease of it hollowed her. Hours watching vanity embodied wasted. Worse, the sense of shallow futility, all remorsefully ineffective. Observing the dissolute departure of his profligate cadaver she wriggled her toes into the malleable earth.
Millennia elapsed and still her figure remained statuary in silence. Sluggishly rising, the coarse
rustlings of silk, dark emerald shimmering golden iridescence, susserated repartee to the mistral blustering amongst the reeds. Heavy the folds of cloth encompassing the fleshed frame, pulling in gravitational need. Plantar shuffling, sink shallowly forming minuscule mountains and valleys amidst cloying grasses.
Gently lapping along metatarsus submerging scarcely adjacent of flowing memory of snow,
rivulets coarse superior seducing porcelain into wintry depths. Vivacious consternation as physique plunges into that brumal mellifluousness. Mass consumption of ichorous stills inhalation. Upward tilt, leisurely absorbing roiling exterior. Pawn encompassed of currents marching to their heart.
Slow ascension, tumultuous tresses broadened in death’s halo.
If Ophelia drowns, and no one notices – is she really dead?
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