She perpetually lived in an illusion.
A phantasmagoric death that she
thrived
and
smiled within.
The phantasmagoric reaper cloaked itself in the form of a humble
Magician.
She was enamoured, beguled and
enraptured
By his vibrant watercolours.
His brush?
A voice.
Such a voice, drowning in a raspiness, so indulging it played
melodies
against her eardrums.
An intoxication.
A spellbinding intoxication.
With his top hat and cloak, The Magician inaugurated his phantasm.
He bestowed his cherished sickening on a
wistful and
futile child
Like a tenebrous blanket, he sheltered her from the stormy realm of bitterness beyond the periphery of their
delirious asylum.
Nevertheless, the sultrous blanket was set aflame by
cynical and vicious remarks.
Like a blank canvas, she yearned for the dynamic luminosity of his liberating watercolours.
But the caliginous blanket had long evanescenced from the barren land of her
heart.
