Disclaimer: As many of you know, this is not mine despite how I wish it
were.
Author's ramble: I don't like this piece very much, just doesn't have that, you know special something. But I hope you like it all the same. I wrote this on a rainy day, piece of advice to all, do not write in the rain, ink and water is not a good mix.
Dedication: For J, who never lies.
*~*
Moonlight casts such an honest light; it shows reality no matter how harsh. It blasts away the makeup that the sun has painted on the world and shows the picture as it really is.
Moonlight never lies.
She walks the street beneath the moonlight, feeling herself as she really is; wretched and guilty. The moonlight shows the poison that still taints her tears and the greed that still hovers in her breath. She hates it, but she endures it.
Moonlight haunts.
She smokes a cigarette as she walks, and the moonlight flashes in the curling smoke reminding her that she will never escape. The smoke stings her eyes and burns her throat like a newly lit fire. She wants to fall and die, but she continues to walk.
Moonlight is merciless.
She passes windows illuminated with the warm orange glow of candles and oil lamps. She wishes she could be near the dancing firelight, but she is doomed to the silver waxing light of the moon, which reminds her so much of a diamond. She is frightened, but forges on.
Moonlight is trepidation.
She passes whores in alleyways with customers and she tries to block her ears to smother their moans and wishes she could run away, but the moonlight shines down and she sees what she is, what she was and what she always will be. She is plagued with regret and grief, but only picks up her pace.
Moonlight is reality.
She reaches the abandoned Mill, boarded up and broken down, still shiny and red. The moonlight washes over the building, igniting the paint so it glows with a dim silver fire and filling the globes so the name looks to be lit up and burning again. She stops and sighs, copping the pain.
Moonlight is bittersweet beauty.
Her eyes wander sadly over the Mill, as she steps inside and she sees the dust settled on the steps, the posters torn and laying in the corners and the windows shattered to pieces. The moonlight creeps into illuminate the rough and neglected dance floor where she, the once notorious Nini Legs in the Air ruled over the Can Can. She suffers, but survives.
Moonlight is painful truth.
The ghosts of the Mill drift around her, silently and unnoticeably and the moonlight shines through them as though they aren't there. Sometimes she wishes she could join them, and be able to roam and exist unshackled in- between the worlds. She hopes, and is always disappointed.
Moonlight is eerie freedom.
She watches listlessly as her footsteps kick up the moonlight-illuminated dust that lies like a thin carpet over the dance floor where she once tangoed with her Argentinean. She misses the passion, the intensity and the heat of that moment. She wants, but never receives.
Moonlight is unattainable love.
She steps back out into the deserted street and passes the whores in the alleyways that are now alone and begins to walk back home, under the spotlight supplied by the moon. Her face is pale, her dark eyeliner making her look like the ghost she wants to be. "What the hell happened to you? You look like ya died," one of the whores chortles to her as she walks past.
"The moonlight never lies," she whispers in reply.
Author's ramble: I don't like this piece very much, just doesn't have that, you know special something. But I hope you like it all the same. I wrote this on a rainy day, piece of advice to all, do not write in the rain, ink and water is not a good mix.
Dedication: For J, who never lies.
*~*
Moonlight casts such an honest light; it shows reality no matter how harsh. It blasts away the makeup that the sun has painted on the world and shows the picture as it really is.
Moonlight never lies.
She walks the street beneath the moonlight, feeling herself as she really is; wretched and guilty. The moonlight shows the poison that still taints her tears and the greed that still hovers in her breath. She hates it, but she endures it.
Moonlight haunts.
She smokes a cigarette as she walks, and the moonlight flashes in the curling smoke reminding her that she will never escape. The smoke stings her eyes and burns her throat like a newly lit fire. She wants to fall and die, but she continues to walk.
Moonlight is merciless.
She passes windows illuminated with the warm orange glow of candles and oil lamps. She wishes she could be near the dancing firelight, but she is doomed to the silver waxing light of the moon, which reminds her so much of a diamond. She is frightened, but forges on.
Moonlight is trepidation.
She passes whores in alleyways with customers and she tries to block her ears to smother their moans and wishes she could run away, but the moonlight shines down and she sees what she is, what she was and what she always will be. She is plagued with regret and grief, but only picks up her pace.
Moonlight is reality.
She reaches the abandoned Mill, boarded up and broken down, still shiny and red. The moonlight washes over the building, igniting the paint so it glows with a dim silver fire and filling the globes so the name looks to be lit up and burning again. She stops and sighs, copping the pain.
Moonlight is bittersweet beauty.
Her eyes wander sadly over the Mill, as she steps inside and she sees the dust settled on the steps, the posters torn and laying in the corners and the windows shattered to pieces. The moonlight creeps into illuminate the rough and neglected dance floor where she, the once notorious Nini Legs in the Air ruled over the Can Can. She suffers, but survives.
Moonlight is painful truth.
The ghosts of the Mill drift around her, silently and unnoticeably and the moonlight shines through them as though they aren't there. Sometimes she wishes she could join them, and be able to roam and exist unshackled in- between the worlds. She hopes, and is always disappointed.
Moonlight is eerie freedom.
She watches listlessly as her footsteps kick up the moonlight-illuminated dust that lies like a thin carpet over the dance floor where she once tangoed with her Argentinean. She misses the passion, the intensity and the heat of that moment. She wants, but never receives.
Moonlight is unattainable love.
She steps back out into the deserted street and passes the whores in the alleyways that are now alone and begins to walk back home, under the spotlight supplied by the moon. Her face is pale, her dark eyeliner making her look like the ghost she wants to be. "What the hell happened to you? You look like ya died," one of the whores chortles to her as she walks past.
"The moonlight never lies," she whispers in reply.