Scales and Ashes Glistening scales defying darkness in the dead of night. A proud grin and then silence. The cold whisper of the night breeze troubles a pond of moonlit water, a microscopic earthquake distorting and twisting the features of a torn face, still as the centennial unmovable rocks of the mountains. Sculpted features ceselled by struggles, time and raw experience. Two white, soiled hands grasping firmly a heavy sword half-buried in the dry earth. Both hands and sword soiled with dirt and dried, purple blood. The flat watery surface of the pond stricken by a sudden blow causing increasing whirlpools and tremors of disruption of focus and linear perception and grasp on reality that seemed nothing more than an objectification of her own psychological troubles, fears and scars from the past, and that night these issues would all come to an end. An end marked by fire. The city slowly, almost sleepily, drowning into its inevitable doom, after a century of sieges. Her noble companion groans in distress, looking puzzled at his master with amber eyes. Specks fallen from the sun, as she used to call them. The lowered muzzle of the creature leans in closer and she caresses it, but she does it to lessen her fears and doubts, more to reassure herself than the proud animal. The touch with those smooth, clean, whitewashed scales, mirroring the whiteness of heaven itself and the essence of the angelic wings, makes her feel unclean and guiltier than ever in her mission. But she smiles, sadly, gazing in the twin suns of those amber eyes. The dragon is a killer as much as she is, the fire raging out of his noble nostrils and terrific jaws. Noble and gracious as savage and primeval, a twisted fate for such a rare and mythical creature, til a few years ago believed by her very tribe to exist only in the legends of the world below. Those whirlpools of an impossible golden shade, mirroring her very soul. She shifts her gaze to her feet, and then lufts it gazing at the faint attempt of dawn fingering her way out of the pitch black mantle of night with bluish and scarlet fingers, painting the new day with an omen of tragedy. Licking the newly-born sky with the fresh blood of the stirring daylight.

Swirling Lullaby Lonely lullaby lost in the tides of time, repeating itself to avoid the bottomless pit of oblivion, a black hole made of the sweetest memories and of lost hopes and abandoned wishes, slipped from human hearts frozen by fear, forced away by cruel souls. Whispering damsels, chained in gothic castles in your velvet web of frozen hopes stilled and prevented from reaching any goal, forced to wander in an unknown vacuum, trampled upon to become nonsensical helplessness and submission of volition, hear my echo in your lonely and dark chambers embroidered in silvery tears that shine bright by night, but are still as honeydew and transparent as cobwebs by day. Broken souls and faded eyes, a trembling fist upon your breast, believe in my words and trust your dying hope, there is still salvation for you beyond your gaze and your broken smile, beyond your warm salty tears and your lover's goodbye. The hartred forced back in your gaze at the altar, the bleeding eyes of the woman in the mirror, the golden hair faded to rotten hay, the sapphyre of your eyes diluted in a blurry bluish haze troubled by misty grey clouds, the rosebuds of your lips withered into the colour of ashes, the fair and smooth skin crumbling like pastry...hear my beam of song and hear it well, thou must not let them push you into oblivion's well. Your strenght and persistance put forth and hold them tight, for they are shiny and resistant weapons against the whirlpools of insanity and forced fright. This lilting melody, nothing more than a whisper, your shield against any troubled water let be, and when shadows trouble your sleep, utter me softly and gently, and from oblivion safe and sound I will be.

Raging Waters, Emerald Gaze She is the creator of the world she lived in, her every word the most concrete and defined element that turned the blurry and evanescent dimension of pure fiction and imagination in a reality she can touch with her hands, smell with her nose, taste with her mouth and see with her vigil emerald eyes, reflected and swallowed by the black swirling tides of the savage sea of a dying twilight. The raging waters wash away her worries and steal from her a devious smile she fails to see, her eyes shut to breathe the raging waves, and soon her voice follows the lilting sound of the sea, but it is her voice we do hear, not the sea. Not anymore. The waves stopped having any sound as soon as she started singing, the sea also existing only as part of her outward conscience. Her voice rose far beyond the genius of the blue surface, and reached without effort the highest heavens above, to claim silence from angels performing celestial songs, belonging solely to her deep imagination. She is the creator and destructor of the world she lives in. A falcon cries sadly from the skies, as if mirroring and objectifying with a sound the pain and loneliness inhabiting her soul, the one companion during her journey inside her very self. She the one true reality and source of every thought, object and landscape she lives in. The#moonleaning toward the blackish watery depths of oblivion is an impossible sight, made possible solely by the rare gift of an overactive fancy and precision of detail, even if a fictional one. A physical contact with a word-based reality might result overwhelming even for its very creator. Sometimes fiction become truth might be even better than what the mind suggested to our imagination. Her hand grazing the icy waters, she is startled by their velvet consistence and tiny whirlpools of echoing mermaid sounds, as emerging from hundreds seashells carelessly lost by clumsy sea-damsels in the bottom of the sea. Her every word gives birth to what she utters out loud, her piercing emerald sight fixes them in their place in her world forever. In a silent bow, every being called to #life would assume his place and role in her world, and obey to her laws and principles eversince. Releasing the last purple-and-silver butterfly that flies into freedom from the tip of her sapphire painted nail, through a wintry snowy sky, a white cold sun peering from the horizon, she stares satisfied at her creation, and smiles to herself shutting her eyes lowering her head. A mute salute or thanksgiving to an upper being than herself? Herself the creator of #life itself, what other being could ever outdo her in power and wisdom? The waves crushing around her in a very cinematographic effect with a salty flavour, conclude their salute to their creator, the sea now calm and tamed as ever, waiting for orders.