Lucy


Lucy walks the garden, grey hair bouncing off her high bare back. The moon above the stormy waters, taking breath from all that’s lacked. Come to me she whispers, part my liquid dreams, take me unto far tomorrows, away from chaste and all that seems believed.

Lucy reads literature from a Victorian age, drowning in her laces, a not so gentleman’s, not so gentle way. She watches stars above Yorkshire, and wishes on red ones, it could be that her suitors aren’t quiet the right ones. Lucy watches privileged lips in sorority affairs, the finest words of society, in London’s aristocratic affairs. And as she takes her carriage home, her mind does wander there. In spinning nights of wind shaped slopes, and days filled with sleep, a luciferin fear of church folk, the creature in her dreams. It could be, after all this time, an English rose could prick her skin toward the sky. And she will pray that what draws nigh, is Gabriel’s gift from nights gone by, a life for that eternal sigh. She sleeps in linen, and closes one eye.

Lucy’s name is cursive, written curved with bodies hinted at in sighs, ecstatic, escalation of the screams behind the night. Above her silken curtains lies a single curse, the ones who somewhere in their fear, have placed without a verse. And this could be the very night, the world stops in its tracks, when she kisses Mina and the future tears her bodice off, and kisses her right back. A startled full built lady, a dreaming little girl, her imagination in the Highland Woods at night, her imagination comes uncurled. Lucy’s dreams before the sunrise, when the tide takes what it lacks, and lashes all its strength on land before the light can draw it back. And she’ll forgo, a stronger touch, all her property given up, and in the space between the night, she’ll see the lightening in forever’s pure eye. So, close to rapture wings do fly.

Lucy walks the garden, grey hair bouncing off her high bare back. The moon above the stormy waters, taking breath from all that’s lacked. Come to me she whispers, part my liquid dreams, take me unto far tomorrows, away from chaste and all that seems believed. – 03.25.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Advertisements

44 thoughts on “Lucy

  1. I kept waiting for Renfeld to appear, I was in junior high again reading Bram Stoker, and I was terrified, and I felt so alive. This is an amazing piece Daniel. ❤ ❤ ❤

  2. Deeper than steel those teeth do sink. This is your scariest yet, and you sit their writing like the wild man you are. I loved each word, and won’t soon forget any of it, especially in my dreams. 😉

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s