Enter and ye shall see the silvery blue cocoon, a brittle shell to mask the interior crimson walls nesting treasures of the forgotten years. Behind glass panels: a window to the sentimental. They forget their past facades and slip into the feathery lightness made from the tears of silkworms. Here, time stands still. Swim in shimmery pools as it glides over their bodies: molding into every contour of every bone. The arch of the back and the twist of the spine, revealing the delicate bones of the anatomical structure. Cool, glistening whiffs of chiffon and imitations of spider's weave, winking in the glow of torchieres, cascade down nimble limbs into lagoons of deep emerald. They sit high, perched on ebony precipices: ivory feathers of extravagance brush softly against the limelight of velveteen. Mullberry, burgundy, amber and ruby melt into lustrous puddles on the hard mahogany. Gold and black embroidery pressed on arches looping into white cotton puffs and multi shades of wool.
Time breaks- snaps like a twig in the icyness of winter. A crackle-sugar coated sweets- slicing through the stillness of dawn. To return to the present and cover the chest of turquoise velvet and gold buckles, sliding it 'neath the covers to be hidden away for next time: confectionary delights. And how could one not question the history behind each story? What mythical places constructed of marble and gold and starry nights did it dwindle under? But history is made now, all that has passed is past. Murky days in the twilight sliver of the crescent.
Sweet Trash.