Silent silver, a pinkcheek hue and diamondeyes, little Ms. Diamondeyes. 晶, ショウ, sparkle, shyou, little Mm., shyou me your glinting beating pearls of a, violet?—perhaps it's the sun—pigment. With longlocks—as a river, 川, runs through the valley, 谷—unfurled upon, and dangling from, shoulders, in mud tones, she seems to sink t'the ground from head to collarbone.
She was born from her vicinity, l'environs, 辺, a sapling seed, 苗木, Naegi, b'eath the branches of a crann oige, young trees in blossom, bloom! you lazarloves, budding groves of apical meristems, meristemnal apique, sucking on the sun, 天日, from the heavens swallow photons, grow, babóg, grow at the teet of the womb, 胎, pedestal of the body in the birth of new life, nouvelle vie with a placental, 胞, lead.
And she walks with the woods, marching through blossomfields of fickle children in the flaura, babies born in vegetation, walk along the horizon-line and slip, fall from the sky, like Fragonard's Swing with umbilical strings as Rococan extravagance merges with nature, fall! and upskirt briars and berrytrees, like Ophelia fell and Millais caught, with a glimpse, the union.
And she sang for the sake of things worthy to be sung for, the movements of the vocal cords and windpipe, 咽, a globus pharyngis motion, and she's choking on fires, 火, that curl round'er lungs, 肺, and thorax in circumcardinance, and her, with dragonbreath, Dagobert of the petit grove, protects them so, and chokes, as flames oft do, but the swelling in her bosompit, began as an emberwick, and fromt grew, in a pheonix fashion, a bonfire that yearnt for melody.
She wore her breastplate and chains—shining like Rembrandt metal—in the gardendances like a molten feis, in the motions of the apple and the blade, Ashmead's kernal, The Court of Wick, Courtesan of the Song Thrushes and the blade, the blade of silent silver.
And sometimes I become her.
Sometimes the sun shifts b'ind a cloud and our faces are welded as one, and in those chancetimes gravitas surceases and breathing enslows—to a brushstroke on canvas—in the cool air of the weldingspring.
She made a footfalling move, for the sun had reappeared, and I failed to clasp her frozen glove.
But I had seen her eyes, 目, les yeux, they were a royal blue—not violet—for nobody, even diamondeyes, had irises the colour of irises.
Her dress, too, was not white, but of a Machard lilac that employed a starlight guise, only revealing the true beauty of the fabrics, through a looking-glass, when the mood of the day depresses.
And exsprawling, clothlike with its ripple waves, 波, the oceanskin pellisgarments—painted with an Aivazovskian harmony of the uisce-dances, in the Ninth where the fireblaze burns like divinity itself—corset, frills and Edwardian hat, touch-me-nots and tulip decor, a temporal flauradom.
The frills, as Fragonard pushed, caught hands in the briars' amputouches, and in her diadelerium she laughed, as the featherdoves and naissanthemums fell around her—it was a whirlwind, Zephyr's doing, as Botticelli had him do, pushing the little Venus and her lady-loves—like snow in Van Gogh motion, utterly superfluous, 冗, like a crown in the wind, or an avalanche, of dovetails and swansfur.
In those moments she looked sublime.
She, in entrivirons, unified a trinity of Man and Earth and Sky, as she flew on umbilicals joined to placental ports enmidst the leaves, 葉, transharmonious.
And I watched in sacriservitude.
Perhaps we were synsubstantial, ajoined a'the hip t'the soil, 土, it was a sacrement-esque scene, and she with her tabernacle-heart—bearing Giotto-engravings of antenaissancy—that caused her to shine so, with symphonic elegance, like light refracting through so many diamonds.
Dancing, she appeared, as the embers of her vestal vêtements flickered against the dewlets, deadstill pon t'grass, 草—the earliest flowers—and she danced rapturously. And when the sun—on its discus plane—rolled, as marbles roll, through the clouds, 雲, and did as stagelights do, in the performances de theatrique, turned her humble Vermeerian evaneloquence—as a housemaid undergoes a transfiguration int' a Vestal Virgin—into a Juliet-esque existence, encompassing the room, 部屋, the theatre, the court cairn rang with velvet chairs, or perhaps wooden pews, passageways and balconies round the Rose theatre, she made herself intimate with the Jurors—that femme fatale. And she, throughout the performance, engendered Juliet with an interpretation that may be said to be "nouvelle", "contemporaine", she created a tangent to history, to the historicism in which our preconceptions are derived—Gadamer's "Wirkungsgeschichtliches Bewusstein"—a new Juliet, une nouvelle femme, that was divergent from the historical accounts and vaults, the theatrical annals in whom she had been transcribed, and whilst not scribbling out, and consequently erasing, a signature that had signed the name of a fore-Juliet, in magical handwriting, she simply added, to that precious scroll, a new signature that flowed—"haphazardly, writ with Chloes, Daphnes—… our lady-loves—phantasms of our brains,—Dream-fancies blown into soap-bubbles!… changing feigned love-words into true:.. calling all these wandering love-birds home to nest."—reaching, finalizing the full-point stop. Having threaded, weaved in petite goldens, the letters, lovely and leaning—against the moon—with the curling J, shaped like the crescent-body, a celestial ladle, 勺, that flowed, unceasingly, lavishly, into the u, which, in being writ, reached an apex and felled, sickle-sided, curved as haircurls, ascended to the apical point, in an ax^2 + bx + c fashion, then lulled, touched the horizon-line and quickly rose yay'again, reached a final velocity, (v=0), dropped, (a=-g), then rerunning up but in a distance (s/2), dotted, placed a star, then an and, the e and t, a separate pair burdening the quick slash through the rising of the t and outstretching, reached, the finalizing full-point stop. Her movements, brief and candlestrewn, on the center-stage, mimicked the course of the writ love-letters, as she lulled and enpotioned; poisoned, snatched—their dangling gaze and yanked—curtainways, the sightsetters, and all eyes became forefocused on a single point of origin, 元, (0,0), and all eyes became one in an admiration, Proustian, and I, as authors perhaps do, sank into my function and joined them, their psycoalescence, in admiration.
And in that moment, she looked sublime.
And in that moment, I became her.
And as the Rose becomes one with the Fire, her Embers dashed and licked the rafters of the Rose, and as she joint those entrivirons, she joined us, too, now, to the Trinity.