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Rated: 13+ · Prose · Emotional · #999507
I wrote it few years ago, about the futility of the "ideal" woman. Enjoy...
Celeste- 5-5-02

Aurum crowned and silken clothed, scented sweet and soft, eyes of a natural brilliance, hands of an artist and the tongue of a poet.
Celeste exists in dreams and illusion. Conjured by will to be the model by which all others are judged, ideal, indeed surreal.
Modest and chaste, out-going and compassionate. Lax and rued for nothing, never indoctrinated; Skeptical yet trusting, tolerant and oh so confident in self. Envisions herself true, clean but will sleep with the pigs. Beauty: personality rich and poor in self doubt. Strong and wise, she denies her crown and silk be for rags, functionality over prestige. Content with none higher, she speaks true she is no liar.
Now I ask, “where is she?” the post being empty, none being able to fill it.
The past is gone, the future: unforeseeable.
Idealism, chastity, welcome dogmatism, insanity. Celeste beheaded, damn I tried.
Her hands bound by fate she drowns in my lies, damn I tried!
I was king in my mind, reality drowns my dream, to her I lied.
From myself I bled the coffers dry, from myself I see Celeste on a cross, innocence raped. The sun is black, the sky as blood, flames dance around her. Fire in the sky, ice in her eyes, she had to die.
© Copyright 2005 O. E. Fetlock (oef_70 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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