The lines and planes of travel were worn to the bone, The wind whistled through, exhaling one single groan, Ophelia noted that the world smelt of petrichor, She hoped she would not have to go very far,
Down the path to the right the masks would appear, Wearing the faces of the creatures from the world of the drear, Though when she sees them only tears begin, Tell me she cried, where does a heart grow within,
One creature with the mask of wolf and child, Stepped forward to scold her quite mild, He said Let me take you back to the house of rain, All other creatures stood in shock, expecting in vain,
For the wolf to stop this useless strain, And at the last minute, no second sooner, Showed a creature whom had neither mask nor face, Without any warning, caution, or speaking,
The creature started the beating, Grabbing the wolf, he threw him with none disgrace, Though no creature survived to tell of the scare, Of whatever evil killing had happened there,
And Ophelia herself lay deadest of all, Under the apple trees which stretched wide, Her eyes nearly opting to confide, The true worth of treasures untold,
And the steps one might take to release a hold, On the last soul which could be so beautifully bold
The beasts are waiting for the violent gold dawn So that they may rise up and sing their awful song They enter the gates of a soul without asking And set to the task of burning and basking In the memories of ones soul thoroughly Before one can howl in dread and fury
Then the biggest beast drags in the perfect deceitful articulation But none other cares, for they find it to be ones own fascination This beast kills the birds of ones loose heart strings And none shall stir, for they find them to be useless beings These birds, however, once knew the meaning of the lies Before one could be there, the feathers plummet from the skies
The last thing one hears is the rumbling laughter like thunder Never after, never after, and nevermore will you sin Or a soul encompass that hollow hole in your chest of chagrin And I will be present to make sure none will fester Within a happy visage of any known jester In the end we shall see who becomes the investor Of this unfortunate tale of ‘nevermore’ besters
And the beasts marked their evil on a being of poor fortune Walked away without leaving even a small portion Of a sliver of hope for one to think to succeed In trying to pick up the remaining feathers to plead.
"My eyes are burning" "That is to be expected. It’s perfectly normal." Silent. For a second, anyway. "How so?" "It just is. Now hush." Alexander touched her forehead, his cool fingers a relief on the hot skin. “How much did you take, you crazy pixie?” "Mmm?" "Exactly how much of the potion did you take?" "You are talking in riddles, silly boy. I thought you were allowed to look into my heart. You love me, do you not? When did that stop."
Porcelain wanted answers. The type of answers that weren’t quite so easily answered by just asking oneself or a friend or a colleague, these were the form of answers that required someone in the profession in answering unseemingly unanswerable questions.
Fingering the slip of velvet paper that the bar tender had given her, Porcelain said the name out loud for about the thirty first time that day: Clarice Clarabelatheen.