Bitter Orchids

The Woman Who Spins The Webs, of silk and silver, the spirals of touch and reaction,

as the wind and the people and the angels and demons all collide on the earth.

A boy. A girl. Children. Weaves the webs so they are seeds of light to grow wings,

and soar to the sun behind the world and sky, to fight the demons nipping at their heals.

A boy. A girl. Secret games in a better world. The sun children, honeyed light.

Love would grow and they would be indivisible for all of life, and into the next world.

But a demon snatched away the boy. Took him underground. The ache grows the seeds

into bitter orchids, black flowers, but still sweet with it’s nectar, nourishing those who adore angels.

A demon rips the webs, and The Woman repairs and changes it, forever and ever and ever.

The girl takes the light and the sun in her ache. Not what it was meant to be. All is still not lost.

The Woman Spins The Webs, and the girl grows grey wings, not pure light, but she flies

into the sun behind the world, and a missing arm still has his brother, still a hand to hold.

The stars above her. Her is tending the one that watches her. She is tending the ember of him.

The stars can warm us, and those lost to death. Light is a song sung across all of time, all of the universe.

The Woman Spins The Webs. The demon rips the webs. She repairs and changes. Forever and ever.

A tangle of plans and attacks, of the light and dark, of all that is dreamed in kisses and in fists.

Forever and ever and ever.

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