Fairy Tale - Part 1
Raindrops on roses weren’t her thing.
They were okay.
But patchouli and pine
Curry and cloves
Burnt orange dusks fading to midnight blue slumber
Alto strings and reeds weaving symphonic tapestries in minor keys
Woolen ponchos and leather boots and prairie skirts sewn from bandanas line
dried for the hundredth time to soft perfection
These were a few of her favorite things.
Depths of tone and texture
Vast in richness
Intriguing in complexity
The labyrinth of wonder
The land of the Prince.
He sought her out early in the season
Just as the crocus bloomed
In the exuberance that precedes
Any need for discretion.
Innocent, she held his hand
Gladly following as he led her
Spellbound though the sights and scents
And sounds of sadistic nothings sweetly
Whispered in her ear.
So softly did he speak
She didn’t notice when
His voice replaced hers.
So slowly did he dim the lights
She didn’t notice when
The oranges turned umber
The blues went slate.
So slightly did he turn the dials
She didn’t notice when
The harmony of the strings and reeds
Changed to dull, discordant static.
So subtly did he administer his anesthesia
She didn’t notice when
The wool began to scratch, the leather tug
The skirt tatter.
His seduction near completion
Her will half a heartbeat from extinction
With her next breath
Her soul would be his.
Copyright © Nancy Jones | Year Posted 2007
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