Not enough? Maybe a small tale to go with the dulcet tones.
Once upon a time in a place we both know well, a solemn Prince bedecked in all the fineries of purest decadence twirled like a porcelain figure atop a music box through halls shaded and chill. A creature of warmth and life even in his fallen reverie, the Prince remained a solitary rose amongst a field of snow. Beautiful, defiant, yet doomed to obey the station of it's own deeply embedded roots. But lo', where he danced, this frost flecked blossom, dreams parted like mist and made so fascinating a backdrop, for such was the true realm of this being. Where his fingers danced, whispers played, children slumbered like ripe fruit for the taking- ever drawn inexorably toward his siren's call.
Such magnificence to behold, one might almost miss the sad truth interwoven into our deceptive tale. For what else glitters just past this performance but a cage so gilded gently rocking beside an ebon throne where She sits. Watching, always watching. Unforgetting. Unforgiving, as elemental as time itself yet no less entranced by the Prince and his nightly, eternal dance. Where he, if perverted, is a facet of life... She is naught but the absence of. Nothingness in supple female form watching with rapt attention as the dancer of the Courts Below twirls endlessly through the halls and mortal dreams both.
So consumes he, the memories, aspirations of those so slumbering sweetly in the lullaby of his embrace.
Dawn approaches, and the dance begins to fade into conclusion. Forth and wide swings the door to the gilded cage, a biting iron, consuming agony. Forth and wide swings the arms of She, a fathomless hunger, defiling ecstasy. So the nightly play draws to a close, and the dance concludes. A choice must be made.
"Soon set ye again, o' star of morn." A cruel whisper is oft heard in these twilight hours. "And dance ye shall again, o' Prince of highborn."
Your words paint a vivid picture in my mind, a spash of crimson on snow... the hot pulse of life blood in the icy cold of winter. And somehow they make me feel... regret. Or perhaps longing, of times I should remember.
A rose would not be a rose if he did not do his best to bloom as beautifully as he could, regardless of the circumstance. If he does not stretch forth his leaves, and open his petals even to the winter sun, he will wither and pass away, never having shown the glamour of a perfectly formed bud or velvet petals to the world. And yet, if there is no one to view his beauty, is it if he has never bloomed at all?
Perhaps this rose dances for the one who watches in the shadows... dons his petals of silk and lace and weaves the gentle dance of dreaming. A gilded cage with the key in the hand of a great master is greater than a world of nothing but snow and lonliness.
But bloom he certainly did, and in such form I can personally vouch for breathlessness in the attending audience of fortunate few. While I was not there, one could say I know someone who was, but that is a terrible amount of italics that detracts from the vibrancy of the point at hand. He bloomed, marvelously so and like so many butterflies emerged from his husk as something far greater to behold than even before. And yet, with this great triumph came as well great pain- for the light that shone there, bright and unyielding, could no longer be contained within those iron bars. No longer contained with outstretched arms. With dawn came the melting of that snow, perfect petals washed away with the stubborn tide of the melt.
I hear tale the somewhere that creature still sits upon the ebony throne, listening to a melody none can hear, and watching a dance none can see. Such memories are unshakable, eternal as She. And they will be with Her always until again the dancer, that Prince of roses returns to dance in those bitterly dim halls once more.
Of course, it could just be hearsay, what think you?
I don't think that such a Rose could truely forget the one who gave him so much cause to shine, though circumstance and distance may keep them apart. Perhaps his dance does not carry the same beauty of those steps in the still snow, when he danced for his shadowy mistress. Perhaps his journeys are his own quest to shine more brilliantly, so that the only ties to that dark mistress are ones wrought of the heart, and not iron bars at all.
zoi_no_miko
Comments
Mayhaps this song will rebirth memories so delicately folded away, origami nostalgia. The video is unrelated, pretty as it is.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=da0r9DC1BHA&feature=related
Not enough? Maybe a small tale to go with the dulcet tones.
Once upon a time in a place we both know well, a solemn Prince bedecked in all the fineries of purest decadence twirled like a porcelain figure atop a music box through halls shaded and chill. A creature of warmth and life even in his fallen reverie, the Prince remained a solitary rose amongst a field of snow. Beautiful, defiant, yet doomed to obey the station of it's own deeply embedded roots. But lo', where he danced, this frost flecked blossom, dreams parted like mist and made so fascinating a backdrop, for such was the true realm of this being. Where his fingers danced, whispers played, children slumbered like ripe fruit for the taking- ever drawn inexorably toward his siren's call.
Such magnificence to behold, one might almost miss the sad truth interwoven into our deceptive tale. For what else glitters just past this performance but a cage so gilded gently rocking beside an ebon throne where She sits. Watching, always watching. Unforgetting. Unforgiving, as elemental as time itself yet no less entranced by the Prince and his nightly, eternal dance. Where he, if perverted, is a facet of life... She is naught but the absence of. Nothingness in supple female form watching with rapt attention as the dancer of the Courts Below twirls endlessly through the halls and mortal dreams both.
So consumes he, the memories, aspirations of those so slumbering sweetly in the lullaby of his embrace.
Dawn approaches, and the dance begins to fade into conclusion. Forth and wide swings the door to the gilded cage, a biting iron, consuming agony. Forth and wide swings the arms of She, a fathomless hunger, defiling ecstasy. So the nightly play draws to a close, and the dance concludes. A choice must be made.
"Soon set ye again, o' star of morn." A cruel whisper is oft heard in these twilight hours. "And dance ye shall again, o' Prince of highborn."
A rose would not be a rose if he did not do his best to bloom as beautifully as he could, regardless of the circumstance. If he does not stretch forth his leaves, and open his petals even to the winter sun, he will wither and pass away, never having shown the glamour of a perfectly formed bud or velvet petals to the world. And yet, if there is no one to view his beauty, is it if he has never bloomed at all?
Perhaps this rose dances for the one who watches in the shadows... dons his petals of silk and lace and weaves the gentle dance of dreaming. A gilded cage with the key in the hand of a great master is greater than a world of nothing but snow and lonliness.
I hear tale the somewhere that creature still sits upon the ebony throne, listening to a melody none can hear, and watching a dance none can see. Such memories are unshakable, eternal as She. And they will be with Her always until again the dancer, that Prince of roses returns to dance in those bitterly dim halls once more.
Of course, it could just be hearsay, what think you?
I'll gladly offer my wings for the heartbeat of your smile, happy holidays.