The Desolation

She lost herself into the darkness worshipping both the magnificent and terrifying sense of solitude. 

  She was lucky enough to have survived the profuse vibes of the mystic river  that was calling her to discover the lands of sorrowful unknownness where nothing really existed anymore. She was very close to give it all away. She was very close to vanish herself with the last call of mourning and grief. And as she unfolded the buttons of her moth-eaten cardigan, a soft breezy wind with a scent of the river meadows caressed her paralyzed with fear face. She let herself be swirled into the comforting feeling. She thought she would burst with the passionate and smothering mystery, wondering and then muffling the truth of the existence of such. She then realized, it is too early to die..

 Folding around through woods and grassy areas toward an unknown destination she landed close to an unusual wooden block around which a throng of fragrant blossoms made their way to sainthood and delirium. The land was home to trimmed bushes and trees and lawns with flower beds of lofty hedge of lilacs, forget-me-nots and geraniums carefully exposed to the little ray of sunshine permeating through the smoky air. At the feverish touch of these, her smooth wounds started healing. She then pulled off the knitted fabric to reveal her body in the light of the sun to heal, console and uphold her through that transformation. Her evident lack of fear had emerged into a delirious pang of relief.

 She'd already dashed down to her shelter and she didn't figure it out yet. The only place she could escape evoking that peculiar beauty that arises only from darkness. She had stood beneath the tree all night long, absorbed by the motion of ebbing and flowing of the neverending vibe of senses, unknown feelings she could barely confine, trying to keep it within her own limits. She then braced herself into the trunk, as if to attach forever to this scenery. And with tears of rage blurring her vision she began to weep thrusting herself outward as if to caress her soul in a gesture of farewell. The old Amy died.. it was her reflection that nurtured her soul through striking calls of desolation.