LILITH'S DREAM

She crouches inside the catacombs; a warren of artistic strength and infinite tunnels of variation and fascination. She unravels herself into an expanse of planned moves, skill and charisma. The well-known brand name plays before her translucent gaze - stretched and cracked over his vast torso. Names and events flash at the corners of her mind as she tries to calculate the distance from patience and understanding to fury and anger.

A killing spree ensues. It is all reflected in his dark, vitreous eyes and tangled hair. He fights a little - just a ploy to mask his sold-out talent with unoriginal gimmicks. An abundance of cheap sales, neatly packaged with the gift of a charming smile.

His death fails, his epitaph still blank, waiting for another mournful date to be etched  in temporary vanity. He hunts her in return for that one thing he needs. It belongs to her - this cold, empty victory - but he wants it, takes it for himself. He leeches the stolen energy and uses it to carve another notch of triumph. A deeply gouged mark of realisation on his own personal fucked-up road home. He uses everything she is to gain new ground, with a snap and a click the game is over. He feeds upon her shock and horror as he walks over the tombs of creativity; leaving arrid, vacuous pockets of melancholic thought in his wake. Surprise was his greatest weapon. 

Sharp pin-pricks of brilliance peer through the woven feathers of her wings - tracked from the hooks of a thousand silk worms, ravaged upon wasted skin. Plotting, squirming and dragging over a matrix of pure evil and absolute vengeance. 

She contemplates, in titian and violent crimson. The glint of a thousand lights, poured from the facets of the thirty-nine jewels, bounce from her translucent skin and surround her soul in an aura of starlight and hopeless infatuation.

The game was one of hide and seek, with a kiss of death thrown in for good measure. She remains here for a while - hidden, conquered and used. Mirrored in reflective opposites from his direction. He has won this round, he will never find her again. His eyes will not see her, not even when she is standing right under his nose. Her ascent, though of a fallen nature, marks his self-destruction. Her descent, in true form, will guarantee his demise. 

SRWB 2010