It’s cold where she lays. Frozen fever twists her into loosening trembles and scarlet reckonings lie unused by better gods. Sensing hands all around and soft, caring voices, whispers of urgency – they are for her.
Sick, she is weakened by unforeseen illness, alertness is vacant unknown to her now, she drifts to charade of her lost sister’s call in gathering gloom sacrosanct in this cellar.
Kingdoms fall vacant in weathering seas as Marlene lies helpless, trying to rise, yet fallen in cloud-covered forgotten moon. Can an eye-flutter chase grasping demons away? – in this gathering madness of lost disarray, her head lies soft pillow in drifting dismay.
“Who is she to us?”
“A path out? – now, perhaps nothing …”
“What do you think, Franz?”
“She is dying.”
Yet the flit of a finger like hummingbird lost, a slight catlike purr from the crumbling garden, a cold caste of misery heralds accord to those paying notice, now all of them here, as breath seems to leave her – but sweet in the air.
She’s the gaggle of the moment, the vanity prize, the embarrassing hair between unshaven thighs, the succulent breasts of sweet maiden prize, replaced by a dwarf who spins bottles on stage on ivory candlesticks. Now all the rage.
A black silhouette.
“Lay upon me my leather with inverted cross,” says Marlene as she rises, arms reaching upward. “I shall not lie here dying without even trying and we shall as one abandon this place.”
And they dress her all in black.
And the stars bring their glow to each of these faces, and still they don’t know what to think or to say.
“There is nothing to say, now just gather yourselves, we shall out in this night and away.”
And thus they do.
A black silhouette with five children behind her abandon this cellar, into the streets of the Ruined City, and into the moonlight of sweet Marlene’s dreams where the doors have no hinges and cannot be closed.
Restless tonight is the Ruined City where the streets pacify feathered silence obscure. Mercy relents to the beating of wings of the birds that will fly here forthwith.
They slip through the street seeking path through the mud, cold now in balance of dripping moonlight; yet away from the crumbling garden, the cat leads silent, purrs finding balance to prowl in the night.
Parts 1 – 8 can be read here: https://wordsandthoughtspjs.wordpress.com/marlene/