The Nightmare - Henry Fuseli

In vibrations of virtual whispers, I found her under a satin sunset, chained to an eerie entity, digging, its claws into her silken spirit. Yet behind her dim eyes - I saw tiny flames of fuchsia and gold and a solemn smile, hiding inside a world of mysticism, mystery and misery. In her virgin ivory gown, floating softly as the velvet sky faded into black - her reflection under starlight, left me breathless - as the definition of 'beauty' paused to admire itself... All I wanted was to shower her in stardust - if I were the moon, I would illuminate her heartfelt desires. Oh mistress of twilight, you were an unexplainable treasure with an expressionless façade - who would cure Rumi's silence and bless Leonardo's pastels. As moonlight glowed upon her cheeks, for a moment, I saw a glimpse of her glossed lips quivering with the alchemy of midnight, yearning to bloom like a rose kissed by dawn's dew. How my soul craved to be a butterfly kissing the depths of her tender petals, gently, moving from each sigh of her skin. As I walked upon blessed sands, I saw Satan's selfish eyes shut, so I reached out and grabbed her hand. We ran away with the zealous zephyrs, like fireflies seeking forbidden fruit. As I held her 'Mona Lisa' face and rested my soul upon her bosoms - just for a moment in my hallucination; I felt as I was lost in Eden's unseen oasis. Her fingers strummed my cello chest like a bow lusting for an unheard melody. Our skin weaved like linen, like orchids blossoming into wildflowers - intimate like breaths on a mirror. I could have made love to her - forever, but our passion departed like silk in between warm fingertips.. Oh Beelzebub's beloved, you were like poetic perfume, but our scent was mutilated, as demonic rage returned upon a mule darker than darkness. As he led you away - I captured your last tear; I'm still drowning in the depths of its sorrows. In your passiveness, you surrendered to his screams, as your dress spilled like milk across shadowed fiber. In an ultimate sacrifice you resembled an offering to something devious and self infatuated. Your neck arched, mouth parted— this was no slumber of the angels. As ugliness perched upon your chest - squatting, grinning, pungent and repulsive with eyes like coals beneath a bonfire, blood dripped from your sweet lips. In his jealousy he tore out your soul - to possess as a souvenir. In his theatre of terror, he played to the mind's betrayal, within realms not seen in reality. With curtains drawn and limbs limp, the faint glint of a candle shimmered upon your eternal elegance. I wonder why you are imprisoned between pleasure and plague. Confused between the euphoria of unknowing and the paralysis of fear in his dark red secrets of sleep. Fuseli does not give her a voice, but gives a poet a muse - etched in oil, in myth, and a lover cursed by her nightmare, wondering if he will ever dream again.