The little girl spreads her wings,
But the bud to bloom swithers in the storm to wither away...
An ethereal frame in the earth,
So pristine and pure, untouched above the tips of the fingers.
Life is a poetry, of incomplete and imperfect letters,
A fighter, a daughter, a lover, a wife and a mother.
World whirls by, and we stream along...
A strumphius soul, swimming through deep.
And suddenly, a serendipity sparks the life...
The sky is azure and bright,
The daylight charming new beginnings.
The kaleidoscopic sunset sky—
Embracing the emerald marmoris sea.
The orphic breeze swirling round the two heavenly frames...
Sprinkles the Angels the mystical embers.
The orange and red autumn leaves showers Binding two souls...
Neva's igniting soul to the flaming of her Mysterious man.
He stands there, so close...
And just like that,
The roots sprouts deep throughout the soul.
The floweret kind of love—blooms unhurriedly.
Reverie in their thoughts,
Smyster embraces the days...
The feathers in the wings of a newborn love,
Over you fly the clouds, carrying— Overwhelming euphoria.
A home is found...
The divine vows threads the sacred bond of two souls for eternity...
All of his is hers... And all of her is his.
Made from each other,
Made for each other...
The blessing for their everlasting love,
A seed is sown in the heart of her core.
Their little sunshine,
The bud of love is home.
The seasons of apricity,
The whiles of seatherny.
The beautiful feath of the warm little family.
How was she to abandon them?
As she stands there in a white dress, her features flickering through the see-through veil, before the man in a splendour of black tuxedo...
For he was the storm brewing in the distance,
Sparing her not a breath of enlightenment—Thrashing along mayhem of torrents.
Crumbling down her castle to debris,
Burning away the portrait of a sacramental love.
"Sam Ishmael, do you take, Neva Evara Noe for your lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?" The priest dressed in a white robe with golden trim over a black vestment asks, glancing at Ishmael, a Bible unveiled in his hold.
"I do." Ishmael secures the words of promise, his deep eyes soaking in her ethereal features.
A white transparent veil, drawn over her face, a precious off-shoulder, white lacy dress, with the svelte flower embroidery opera sleeve up her arms, the flares falling down, embracing palm.
The heart flooded in enchantment of her presence; his Neva looks breath-taking...
"Neva Evara Noe, do you take, Sam Ishmael for your lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day on forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?" The priest asks, gazing at her.
Ishmael has his breath gripped as the priest frowns at Neva, for a moment has passed, and she uttered not a word, standing there so cold and grim.
He squeezes, straining a little her hand held in his own.
She lifts her lowered, her soulless eyes to gaze into his, roaming over his features, the features looking-through the man she loves. Perhaps, if she lives in the illusion of him being her husband, she could go through another day.
But she cannot feel his features like she does her husband's, nor his soul breathes her home.
She fears those dark eyes. The coarse voice shuddering her.
His rough touch corroding her.
A cold heart, a clouded demeanour...
He could never take his place.
The pastor clears his throat. "Neva Evara Noe, do you take—"
"Rhett," whispers out, Neva with the rosy, wavering lips.
"I beg your pardon?" The priest squints his eyes, a deep frown between his brows. And the next moment he has his heart almost leap out the chest, for Ishmael harshly grabs the bride by the hair.
"What did you say?" He hisses through. "I want to go to Rhett." Neva utters out, her eyes cold and bare.
She doesn't flinch in pain, even if he's thrusting her close, her chin lifted, their faces inches apart, as his grip on her hair hardens, the thorny hair pins in the crown braids, reaming her skull.
"Look at you so adamant. Calling out name of some other man while you stand here as my bride and carry my children." He clenches his jaw.
But those sharp glare, they fail to agonize her anymore.
His clasp on her loosening, he leaves her rather gently.
Her eyes widens thinly, the priest has his gun forced at the head, he shudders at the cold touch of the weapon.
"Say the words, and let us be done with this marriage." Ishmael warns. He signals the priest to continue with a stern grimace.
The priest gulps afraid, but repeats the vows; praying to avert a conceivable ritual of blood on the holy altar of the Church.
He glances at Neva, her own mutters a silent prayer for him to avoid offering her those pitiful eyes, for she wouldn't be able to bear the burden of the vows.
Her fist clenches, tears burbling in her lifeless eyes, she liberates them, streaming down her warm reddened cheeks.
She belongs to Rhett, and she'll forever do.
The sacred of their marriage. As he said he meant the vows, she's destined to it too. Each phrase secured with so much love and honor.
Neva feels herself trembling, the heaviness of her verity... sinking her deep.
Bang!!
She flinches, the firing accompanying a shrill yelp from out the priest. He falls down on his knees, clutching the bleeding thigh, face shrinking in torment.
The white floored altar, pooling in blood.
Ishmael aims the gun at the kneeling man's head again, his index finger close to pulling the trigger. "No!" Neva's voice cuts in through, having his glance on her.
"Please no," she whimpers out.
He tilts his head, "Say the words."
She clutches her dress tight, her head fallen, eyes shut tight, swallowing down her emotions. Her chest heavy, rising and falling, her soft—short gasp are hushed, the flaming ocean engulfs her, burning her so painfully to embers.
"I do." Neva strains out a tragic, husky murmer. A bitter tear drop flowing down her tear stained cheeks.
She's inhaling poison, shivering and confused. Lifting the dizzy and aching head, it strangles her sanity, seeing, decaying in Ishmael's smile.
"There you go. Father Matthew, go on." Ishmael says, retracting the firearm. He indicates one of his men standing guard inside the church.
The man nods to his sign, coming up the altar, he holds the priest up on his feet.
The priest, drizzled in sweat, almost losing consciousness, he barely gets through the acknowledgement that the couple have declared their consent to be married. He shortly prays blessings over them—and declares, "What God put together, let no one asunder."
---
Neva lay wide awake on the bed, bruised and naked under the duvet.
The aversive sleep, refusing to draw in her solace, the darkened ceiling, hurting the eyes.
Ishmael left for hours now, and left her alone, rotting in the grave.
She slowly slides off the bed.
And as she clothes her bare form, the emerging, four month baby bump heeds her awareness.
When she was growing her little boy, the bump appeared smaller in the similar month, as she caresses her protruding belly—her eyes softens.
In a flinch, she retracts her hands.
She abhors everything of Ishmael's.
Out of nowhere, a fluttering sensation in her belly has Neva purse her lips.
Her gaze frozen, her heart held no warmth for the fetuses in her womb.
She walks out the door, the mansion deep in the night, dark, eerie and silent. Each serene saunter, has her heart lightened.
As she unveils the door to the terrace, she closes her eyes, the sweet and cool September air brushing lovingly her face.
With a gentle peace over her face, she steps forward, one step and another, closer to euphoria.
The long onyx hair, dancing in the air, her white vintage night dress illuminating in her dark surround.
She gazes up at the sky, leaning on the railing, the moonlight shining down, adorning her heavenly face, the shimmering stars... a novalunosis to the dimming soul.
The forest allures her to wander through longingly, searching for a mystery.
She exhales out a calm breath. The thread of fate and destiny is arcane, the world is wonderful.
But her blooming flower is withering away.
She's aware of how little of the world she's experienced.
But everything she's had with her soul lover, she embraces them all.
Their beautiful little family portrait, engraved in deep—and forever in the heart.
She lives them all; she loves them all; and she's fulfilled.
As she stands on the wide rims of the railing, a smile feathers on the blossoming lips.
Neva was beautiful, a loving, kind spirit.
She's never mourned them, for she lives in the latibule of her Eden.
She's selfish and weak, for she breaks promises and will split the thread of fateful eternity.
But she's bled enough; the mortal shell has had suffered throes enough.
Neva closes her eyes; the soul is prepared to go astray; to embrace her fall from grace.
Unveiling the mirror of the soul, she breathes away every pain, her bare edge of leg; reaching for the air.