"O, that this too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew. "
Hamlet~Act 1 Scene 2
Never dying flowers float on the dark water, surrounded by syrinx and weeds.
The wind sighs though the syrinx, her voice calling out desperately to anyone that will hear her, her pain a sweet sound.
I am here, and I am not here. I am something, someone, but no one. The faint traces of erased pencil on an old piece of paper, a drop of ink in an ocean of lives.
But still, I see, though red poppies on the water, though the hearts of the desperate, the loving.
The still water.
It is always peaceful, unless someone falls in, and their thrashings quiet soon enough.
They sleep among the flowers, a saccharine smell to mask the rot and mold, sometimes a sweeter smile to mask the heartache.
It is a gentle death for a harsh life. A black haired man with kind eyes, an old woman who cannot afford happiness, a red haired woman with a dead husband and dead child.
There are so many here…but yet it is lonely. We all are so lonely.
The tears are washed away to the sea.
The forest that surrounds us is always loud, but all the noise disappears once you get away from the trees. Dark woods that house many secrets, the bark of the oldest oak is burned and stained, the younger trees are bent but healthy, strong. Some grow taller than others.
But lately they have been dying.
The living wander here, lost. Once upon a time a man with short hair and a strange mask, a boy with long hair and darkness in his eyes, now a young boy, full of hate and a desperate man with a pale face, that turns womanly in our river's glassy surface. He angrily splashes his reflection away, and the distorted image makes him smile.
A glimmer of something lost, I think…
No.
Singing.
I listen to the soft voice. It isn't the best, but it as a soft ring to it, an eerie keen of a mourner. Another lost or forgotten soul. My heart leaps.
The woman is limping. Her eyelids are sunken and closed. Occasionally they flutter open, revealing something akin to a pink rose.
My fingers find my own face and wonder.
Her short pink hair is matted, blossoms and leaves tangled with the locks. Her pale skin stands out against the scarlet of blood. However, except her face and her limp she seems unharmed.
I…She…
She is beautiful in a way I cannot, will not, fathom. She has sacrificed, you can see it in her movements and hear in the song she sings. A song of poppies and wolfsbane and rue. And a mention of hemlock.
The woman comes to the edge of the river, not bothering to stop. I feel concern. In her blind state, if she continues…
She stumbles forward, her useless foot caught on a stone and she falls into the water.
…she will fall.
The blood from her face stains the river darkly. She mewls and struggles for the surface.
I pity her.
Wrapping my arms around her, I kiss her tenderly, kindly.
She stills.
Things aren't as cold as they used to be.
A Sakura tree now grows on the edge of the water, and the blossoms kiss the surface of the water in March. Sometimes the water is completely blanketed in pink.
My princess delights in the smell and feel of them on her, sometimes too much, I think. They are maybe the only thing she loves as much as me-
A dark haired man with green eyes often comes here now, and his face is reflected strangely in the water, distorted and monstrous. And sometimes vines grab his foot, and he stumbles often.
I cannot blame her.
Sometimes, in the darkest days of the year, we dance on the water, waltzing dracefully to the sound of branches rubbing and snapping and crickets. Some say if you see it, you will be blessed in love.
Perhaps.
The rest is silence.
A/N:
Hamlet inspired,
worked hard on it.
Reviews are appreciated,
and Con-crit is treasured like the rare jewel it is.
Have a nice day!