I am sitting in a chair in the midst of delightful company. The atmosphere is bubbly and warm -enchanting in its liveliness. The air is filled with laughter, like the taunting cackle of crows as piercing rain torrents on funeral mourners, 'parading in the wake of sad relations as their shoes filled up with water'. And indeed I sit here drenched in ethereal rain, mourning a non-existent death.
As I scan the elegantly decorated room, I find that I am immersed in a scene of joy. It is infectious, stretching its graceful arms in a welcoming gesture. But it distorts as it approaches my seat; my temporal disposition a blot of black ink on a canvas of rainbow colours. It lingers - it dances around me, approaching tantalisingly close, swimming on the hairs of my skin, flirting with my emotions, before dissipating like specks of golden dust caught in a gust of icy wind.
I can see beautiful women, teasing with their silk hair and piercing stares. I can see men steal glances, firing cupid's arrow with every turn of the head, with dismal precision. Yet notwithstanding astray arrows, I admire their courage and vigor and rue my want of such intent; my only arsenal an array of blunt arrow excuses.
I am sitting in a chair in the midst of a celebration of life, yet I sit here drenched in ethereal rain, mourning a non-existent death, notching a blunt arrow of an excuse onto a tired bow.
As I scan the elegantly decorated room, I find that I am immersed in a scene of joy. It is infectious, stretching its graceful arms in a welcoming gesture. But it distorts as it approaches my seat; my temporal disposition a blot of black ink on a canvas of rainbow colours. It lingers - it dances around me, approaching tantalisingly close, swimming on the hairs of my skin, flirting with my emotions, before dissipating like specks of golden dust caught in a gust of icy wind.
I can see beautiful women, teasing with their silk hair and piercing stares. I can see men steal glances, firing cupid's arrow with every turn of the head, with dismal precision. Yet notwithstanding astray arrows, I admire their courage and vigor and rue my want of such intent; my only arsenal an array of blunt arrow excuses.
I am sitting in a chair in the midst of a celebration of life, yet I sit here drenched in ethereal rain, mourning a non-existent death, notching a blunt arrow of an excuse onto a tired bow.
