Freckles of dust splash the weak light that slithers down the cold stones.
One step at a time, she descends. Her lyre used as a blanket to scatter the shadows; soothe the spirits, make them howl in harmonious notes. Her throat is swollen, parched. The wolf fell in too deep.
She follows the path that's dressed as a flower bed; Persephone's gift to her. A reminder of what spring looks like to the living.
Each strum of her fingers takes her away from Hypnos' embrace and Lethe's poisonous waters. Her feet touched the stream and she lost her sandals; she couldn't remember the way back. The music is messy.
Charon offered her a shiny bone and told her to use as a key; she should pay the forgotten sea's captain in gold but alas, her tears won't come. She plays him a song instead.
The souls are gathered behind the oars, the howling has stopped, the torn robes skin the dirt, the water is silent and Hades weeps.
He shows her the way: "Don't look back, my dear. If you do, your wife shall be lost once more".
She could recognize her shadow even if the sun never dawned again. Oh how she wanted to touch her soft skin, kiss her shaking lips, smell the lilacs braided in her hair like a crown.
One step at a time, they ascend. Her lyre as a blanket to keep them warm, her thirst quenched by salty hopes, the penumbra still in front of a mirror.
She stops and waits before the flickering sunlight. A shadow she won't be anymore; the darkness will turn into plum epidermis, golden hair and warm blood. She cannot wait, she wants to see her, she missed her. What if she was left behind? What if the gods tricked her? What if she just had a quick peek?
And just like that Eurydice was gone. As quick as the wind blew Orfea's hair and scratched her eyes. The screams got carried away, following the underworld's whispers. The Gates are closed, the Guardian is awake, the boat causes ripples, the dead mourn.
The shiny bone turned to soot and Orfea wished she could drink it. She snapped one of her lyre's strings and tied her hair; cutting her fingers and letting the blood spill. She laid down, her back crunching on flowers bathed in ichor and waited for the gold coins to decorate her eyes.
discoholicmusic
theartofmadeline
titsay
gracieabrams
kianamaiart
