Mistress of the Fracture, Madame de la Brisé

In the spring of the world, she dances forth life. In the dying of the spirit, she joins the linked-arms of le grand danse macabre.""

---

I hear you say, I am beautiful. We have years of love and a journey stepped side-by-side.  Our faces have changed slightly in reflection, and the mirror deals a different card to the soul.

Then there is you.  You say I have helped you bloom. 

You look at my body with want and desire, saying you do not share my misgivings.  You too, say I am beautiful. Yet, I see the tide coming in and wonder if it will sweep us offshore away, drifting everforth, apart?

There is a special loneliness and acrid sting to the desolate heartache found in this barren place of the withered heart.  Here, a parched spirit finds a drop, a whisp of dew on dead leaves, just enough to sustain, but not truly live.  Enough to survive but not come forth in light.

I am your tourguide in this place of the Dead.  What business have you? Ah ne'er a mind pay it . . . It is as unimportant as the life I now live, as used up and crackled as the last choking embers in a waning fire.

Yes, I know this place well.  These here? They are dusts that blow with the voices of ghosts. I nurture them.  They need me, at least.  They do not ask why, but rather simply echo my voice when pathetic, querying, crying to the gods --   "What pain in the empathy!" "What ghastly, white-hot emaciation in the evacuated sphere, used up and thrown!"

Meso.  Middle. The Center?   The Lukewarm, it really is.  They don't tell you that in the brochures.

I did not ask to be holy.  Yes, I have heard before.  It has issued forth from my own utterance and it is almost laughable, no?

I submit that as the grindstone holds my heart, it is further seared and bludgeoned, between two pillars -- one to whom I've given my life, the other, my spirit.  It is blade-sanded, I say -- this beating thing that rests caged in the ribs of flesh. 

The hot winds blow and dry the desert once more, the pain blooms like a kiss in my ear. 

Your trap was sprang slowly, over many moons. The other grew upward around me, and my trellised form, gave life, strength, and the blood of my body so they could live even still . . . Yet the roots were thrashed in violent tearing, Unexpected and from fear, the swords clashed, severing my arteries almost in two.

Oh how my tears did flow in those moments!  How like an ocean, I lived, buried under, unable to breathe.

You're done, aren't you? 

I fear you are. 

Yes, yes, I know.  I've heard it before when the vessel is emptied and the spring, gone. In the winterfall, I know its voice.  It greets me with a sickening grin, making my warm hands, cold; my joyous heart, broken in a gleaming flash.  I watch myself die. 

You're done, and once again, I have carried across a stage, nothing more, though my heart was given freely, truly, and with all love. 

I hear the adoration in the voice of those who illusion themselves into thinking me worthy. My heart sinks.

The worthy do not find themselves shoved away, nor do they splay across the table of loneliness. 

Divine hope, you are a cruel Mistress.  Yet, you are all of my tutelage, and all I shall ever be. The font of my worthiness, you flow forth and when the light beams, night falls on the Mistress of the Broken.  Stevie said, "Poet" and "Priestess of Nothing," She crumples, heaving out huffing smoke breaths of despair, anguish; utter grief and pain. 

The Mistress's house will crumble, and her stores empty for good.  In that moment, when the eyes have no more rivers to gush forth, she will depart for the Ether, spirit emptied, heard rendered silent. 

Until then, she is racked, drawn, and given a remarkable price to pay once more. Compelled to sign her name on the ledger again, she checks out her heart.  It is borrowed, joyously treasured, loved and cherished, until tears and the end of the tale are heralded by the dying of the light. 

She remains.  In the spring of the world, she dances forth life. In the dying of the spirit, she joins the linked-arms of le grand danse macabre.

When will it end?  She will find nothing.  Nothing will be her demise.  Her heart will use up its last ember, its last chord will issue from broken strings too thin to be remounted.

Neither of you want me.  You have outgrown and I have outlived.

My heart dies another death. ©2013 Melissa Alexander, Gypsy, The Gypsy Shadow http://thegypsyshadow.blogspot.com/2013/03/mistress-of-fracture-madame-de-la-brise.html