orpheus descending

Orpheus is descending.
He is dried up and hung over and totally uninspired with the morning sun. An endless numbing headful of bees. He resents everyone in the Cave thickly and surely. He resents his Cave and Her intrusion, Their victimhood.

Orpheus is descending.
He is rudderless and flaying for no one to see. The centre cannot hold and the chalice is poisoned and the cup was never filled in the first place. He makes fire without smoke so no one in the Cave can see, will know. He wants to burn Those Wretched Feet.

Orpheus is descending.
He smiles darkly, coos sweet nonchalance with practice. In place of heart a matt obsidian orb. Sharp as words, ferocious with ennui. In time, both feet in a miasma, swirling confused in apathy.

Orpheus is descending.
He is drained and void and smells the putrid pus-fumes from his pores. Exhaling a breath of rotten vegetable life. Humours rage havoc in constant bloating and a system in awry. The killer sting-nails digging into feet.

Orpheus is descending.
He is wary and weary and pays surety to unsureness. Made sick from the smug and snide kindness of friendly strangers. He sees well, strains the fist-grip pressure of flotus, and contorts his face into Learned Feste, eyes cutting to the quick.

Orpheus is descending.
He walks in, and she turns her head, Solitude standing, leaning against the window sill. He is struck by her black silhouette, by her long cool stare and her silence. And she turns with her hand extended, her palm is split with a flower with a flame.

Orpheus is descending.
And she says I’ve come to set a twisted thing straight, I’ve come to lighten this dark heart. And as she takes his wrist he feels her imprint of fear, and he says I’ve never thought of ever finding you here.

Orpheus descends.