Michael (songstempest) wrote in linguistique,

  • Music:

The Royal Procession of the Infantae

Title: The Royal Procession of the Infantae
Theme: No theme, because we are not restrained
Notes: There is nothing I can add that will do what you are about to read any justice. I can offer no clarification, only that you may perceive of it what you will, and I can do nothing to stop you. This is no more important than it is tragic. It is just words upon words, arranged so that you may look at it, read it, conjure images from it, apply it to something or nothing or whatever and however you see fit. That is all I can say. Also, that this is cross-posted from my own journal.

The enclave stood barren atop the sermon mount; thirteen girls veiled in white marched stalwartly across the desert now deserted, each with a bouquet  of scarlet and blue. Aimlessly, effortlessly, like the feet of ghosts on kitchen linoleum, they proceeded. Their footprints were testament to the voyage, no words, no pages. No idle words to be passed down through generations. Not a one spoke in red. Not a one in chapters or verses. Just the confounding distance of their footprints, none few or far between, eternally spanned across the dismal reminder of God's barren wastes, the O Holy Wrath of He On High! Pillars of salt and tongues of flame lapping and licking at the sunset horizon, all the while the grim procession silhouetted themselves against the sand blasted walls of that enclave on the sermon mount.

Spake one unto the night's violet onset: "I was like you once."

But said the sunset, nothing. Only the impossible eternity of that twilight expanse. The immaculate silence of the world as it was, not as it is.

So stood the Bridesmaids, thirteen all. Each clutching the wedding bouquet that was not their own, shambling on broken legs across a broken land. Remainders all of Father's holy wrath upon the household. The time that mother abandoned them in search of her own mind. When brother stole their panties and set them ablaze in the back yard while they hung to dry. The laughable glow on their faces when they first read of love and romance. The wrenching travesty set upon their smiling eyes when the fist of Tom Baker broke their front teeth in fits of drunken hysteria; lying naked and bloody on the thirty yard line. Telling jokes under the canvas of a tent in the backyard with the neighbor boy, who, at the age of eleven, professed to them his undying love and his irrefutable courage at the face of death. "I am not afraid to die," he said softly, under the guise of darkness. "Only afraid not to."

And they, those thirteen women, bridesmaids to the world, to the soft ebb and flow of the eternal continent, with broken teeth and glassy eyes, stood at the sermon mount, and sang upon the evening wind a hymn of despair.

They inherit all that we have left behind.
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic