Fata Morgana

...cinnamon roses, crimson drops of blood.

Black silk and sheer suffocates my lair...

The pre-dawn skies cry the cold dew.

Through the open balcony, frigid winds blow the drapes

across to my bed, these tickle my arm and cheek provoking me to awaken.

Wind carries a faint sound that caresses my eardrums.

Could it be?

It is! the aurora ritual.

The eerie sound of bagpipes played at the top of a cliff which ovelooks a raging sea down below.

Waves of darkened water crash against the shards of stone, as if applauding his precense and begging him to continue.

A chill runs through me as the music engulfs my heart.

Little does he know that I can catch a note or two of his melodies.

Ice forms on the tips of his long, raven locks, as he stands before his only intended audience, the sea.

As the last notes hit the wind, the sea calms its roar as if by a command of his power...

His cloak swirls away from his body revealing a tall, slender figure.

An exhausted being bows before sunrise, then returns to his haven.

His soul long forgotten...

Therefore there is no warmth to his touch or behind those blackened orbes he has for eyes.

Desire overwhelms my entire flesh.

Why do I yearn for thee?

Suspire...

My hand reaches out to touch, but in vain, he is unreachable.

Not for me to enjoy!