Placenta.
Act 2 Scene 1
The Little Girl woken crepuscular,
innocent to sounds bred while all slept sublunar,
thought she’d be morning wed, as she braided
her hair with a peregrine heart.
A song delivered on wing of a lark
a botanical prime in her born serine
to call her rosine, is to leave translucent
to the ink she stained, to the skin she laid
for tender she had the most luscious dyed dress,
with fabric to air withering by a backdrop window,
which coated her fingers, ground-dwelling caress,
as on the bows of a certain string cello.
As the Little Girl was sitting clumsily
on the edge laced of her rusty bed
she heard, softly through the cottage window
lurking through petals, like a tear that was shed,
a call, pulling her black long hair
far to the outer garden, kept open that night,
As well should be called a garden, for in her care
that florent wood wide was silken and bright.
For the forest came alive especially tonight,
blooming all sorts to that plucking ring
where the sun grows pink, and all sounds spring
to excel what is heard to what will become.
The Little Girl climbed over window and tree,
petrichor bare feet into grass sinking lowly,
believing her toes an aviary of command,
spell-bound wet ahead, with a tear in her hand.
<Who shall dwell at our entrance, plumage only
of a path to sprouts in darling wander?
<I am just a little girl, from the cottage.
<a pilgrimage awaits you my dew, go flutter.
<I shall fall back asleep,
so when all is far from my reach
my Little Dove glides to breach my revery
and make reality in peace>
But she did not see in flight blood and serene
was plucked out of her dress the seam of a petal
stitched them as fabric to feathers winged
and fell into a deepest of echoes
A bellow from below, in the forest of her home
laid silently her pillow full of plume.
she’d be making for pillars to weave unforeseen
to eyes may-be blind but nevertheless evergreen.
Chorus to Act 2
An aquifer, a golden pond of water,
milky in the ways it sunk,
but of the most lucid colors.
one could gently dip their hand through the surface,
(and) be coated wet in auriferous glaze,
limpid as it reflected glimpses of gold.
So lead me softly on …
Softer than the sweet mill mild
a broken wing shivering to her caress
insipid in the ways it curls,
brushing the leaves of a salix tree to say hello
wallowing around the bend lilac lie slowly in wet mud
Chorus to Act 3
Twas a day shone to gold, that fine lore evening.
a tale, drenched down vines on a wall
to moss we had spread on the sidewalk, evergreen
the understory to the forest we call.
She walked miles ahead, seeking for the song of the Lamb
reaching for the canopy she always sought unsaid:
the shade of the moon lit, just above forest floor,
a grove intended for a morning stroll.
the Little Girl, arboreal as she be.
teach me the ways of the Lamb, she speaks,
for we wish to enter your den tonight
if it is ours to seek.
Out of the blue shone a star, as bright as a crystal cove
strings from arched music layered her soul
sheltered she was, for many desire to ex-plain,
but concave now the roof of her cord.
That night she sought den on a shepherd’s hill:
a mountain dew leaf cut by the lizard's tail,
lull she quietly till her fall asleep
a baby feeding on a head of a snail.
As was dreamt of the moor, her creeks and wilds
she’re to soften the lessons of her blessed child
riverine, a stream took her to farthest caves.
though a forest never carves, she smiles
She woken, but was never really there, endlessly
Whenever the stream would be set free to part,
the rock would pull over sounds of waterbirds
swimming with a pounding heart
A creature so pure it could lighten the stars at first glance,
its eyes reflecting the splendure of the moon,
moon pearls woven into a dress
of constellations in skylight blue
The night she’d be caught dancing under blaze of the sun,
a flock would follow weeping, as thread to the sun.
the light we had spun had shone miles ahead.
as the games they to pledged had begun.