My gaze bears down upon the slave, a callous indifference etched into the map of my visage. ‘..You were well spent, dancer. Wasted. Nothing, on the day you first saw me.
Now: puppet. Let the strings of dance lift you to more than dust in my eyes. In the eyes of my Brothers, my friends: DANCE, slave of SD.
Yes my Master.
Wagons of Merchants rumble to a stop. Fingertips tap to the rhythmic clatter of silk looms pulsating through the old wooden floor of the Warehouse. Shallow sporadic breaths squeeze from fiery lungs as a slave wrestles her way to her feet.
Spider leg lashes flutter as nature rents lace clouds from the full breast of a milky Prison moon. Mulberry coloured cheeks glow as tangled, Moon-gleam gold hair, tumbles over shoulders that weave as if a chrysalis emerging from its protective case.
Arched brows knit, every thought written on a slaves face, Who am i? Finger tips paint mazy lines as arms fling wide, spreading as fledgling wings. A chaotic riot of sound taunts a slave, as the vivacious colours of the day are gobbled up. ↓ Read the rest of this entry…