I wrote once. Many times, a long long while ago. Before the leaves died in the fright of winter’s smite and fell to the earth, withered and old. Before the knife went in and came out red as innocence lost. I believed in a Wonderland that danced upon a solid rock of absolutes, ancient and invincible. But they are much more like the autumn leaves than I had once thought. With the loss of time, a rush of blood to the head, I cannot ignore the dizzying spell that is but a symptom of my chaotic dread. What once was, never was at all. My heroes, epic odes, romance that defies reality, and love that conquers all…seems to have withered in the fires and returned to me as dross. It took dying seven times seven and again before I lowered my neck to the stone, preparing for the final blow. There was no lament, mourning tearing to shreds, weeping in the city square. The streets were vacant, my heart laid bare. I was ready for death. But even then, like a thief, you stole that from me.
When I had nothing left on the earth, but a handful of ash you gave me one more story to tell. The fabled Phoenix, stirring and burning in the frozen ashes of funeral gone mad. Whispers of innocence, rumors of strength, the breath of One ushered beauty awake, for she had been slumbering in the lap of horror for far too long. He braided sinews on her dry bones and kissed her heart to beating to the rhythm of his own.
And then, I wanted to live.
