© Michael Price Inc.
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Page 2 of 8
| Masquerade Recumbent, her wings clipped, she pulled memories into a golden womb, enchantingly though. Perished souls, not forgotten as music pushes forward leaving behind the impossible echo of hearts as they used to be. Dangling in life. Threads plucked from a golden loom, entangled, impenetrable. The twin colossus is no more: an eruption praising eternals. And eternity can crumble. Shadows masquerade dancing an invocation conjuring up unknowables. Behind the mask, unlearnable histories, pitiably untellable as words tumble. We are covered in dust, misguided warriors questing the golden tomb. The court jester rattles his paraphernalia summoning the half-imagined life. That was before the collapse. The court - a blind chorus, endearingly though. |
