Harlequin dances about the floor, surrendering to Demons
and Angels, silhouettes and innocent shadows. She stands,
mythical and poetic, spinning her dreams out like darkened
spider webs. Caught by her own vanishing nightmares.
Violent and gentle, she spins and twirls, the ribbons flying
up and fluttering to the floor. Above her the sky seems to
burn, the horizon is downcast and she is tied to this hideous
form. Circled by Hell's vicious dogs.
Silky are the voices that call her inside, bluer than the moon
outside the painted glass. They tease her, push and pull her
down. Violet sunlight floods the circle that divides Heaven from
her Hell, tied to the knives spinning round.
Lacy snow falls in the midst of summer's tears. Pink and Ivory
against the erratic world flowing into her. She studies the
imperfections of a rose, standing before the Court of the moon
and her lovers. Dulcimers play at the edge of her sanity.
Fiery kiss upon her cursed lips, a virescent larkspur to
resurrect her. Now fanged, she lets the blood flow, the
honeyed lies and sweet brokenness take control. Her womb
is bleeding, rape the soul. Shatter the glass, make it whole.
Adorned in bloody rubies, glittering in the darkness of the sun.
She stands, new born. Two has become one, Harlequin no
more. Let the walls that have imprisoned her vanish as she
rises to shine. Illuminated by her own silver tongue.
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