ANCIENT BELLWETHER. she, dawn. the scene around them is fading to a close. night has fallen already, and she can hear the steps next door as people fall into their beds. hers is a wicked grin, laced in belladonna fire. it blossoms like lunacy, with her eyes wide and mirthful. this is not one to trust / it speaks volumes of prickling flowers. ❝ what’s wrong, doll? am i not enough? ❞ oh, listen to her dulcet voice. the octave of symphony. nepheliad. petty biting thing. with her hand she takes his. she presses it to the dead, cool spot where a beating heart once sang. ❝ is this not enough? ❞
@herisked .













