1. supplicant [A supplicant is a person who prays to God or respectfully asks an important person to help them or to give them something that they want very much.]
2. seraphic [characteristic of or resembling a seraph or seraphim|seraphim:an angelic being, regarded in traditional Christian angelology as belonging to the highest order of the ninefold celestial hierarchy, associated with light, ardor, and purity. ]
5. petticoats [a woman’s light, loose undergarment hanging from the shoulders or the waist, worn under a skirt or dress]
8. ecru [the light beige color of unbleached linen]
10. dramatic art
My role as supplicant squandered. My petition disastrous. The seraphic response hardly neutral. Leaving me with a tickle in the throat and a shot to the gut to polish me of. I appear bending like dramatic art.
All for the love for ecru petticoats.
I sit uneasy at the kitchen table. While nothing was out of place, that is exactly the problem here. I’m not going through all the trouble of cleaning when the dirty dishes rush back in the sink. The washbasin, a peripheral madness that draws clutter.
But still, I imagine footsteps. The girl and the invisible door are at play here. She comes from the chamber of proverbial oddities. I have been there. And truly owe several complocations in my life.
Namely the other me. This is where the cleaning comes from. Its like a demented twin. Everything I leave in my preferred state of chaos is ruined and organized. I find the extra work of searching for any item in place doubles the wasted time organizing it.
I use the corner of my eye to play a twisted game of mental tag. I like to refer to it as the needle in the dragon’s eye. I’m just as likely to win as stabbing said dragon. The other me refers to it as the pariah and the marionette, the strings I only feel from tune to time.
So I nurse my coffee. My mind is engaged in the intimate departure of logic. Maybe the gravedigger’s maze is more accurate. The daylight has parted awhile back. I resist the dream connoisseur with more confessions from bedlam.
I’m drawn to the chair next to me sliding out. I see his face… rather my own. A waking nightmare continues.
My bluebird of happiness perches high on the tree. He tells me “sometimes a leap of faith is the only form of transportation”. His gaze fickle as he looks me over. I am awash in your love potion. The words matter not to me. I vision sinking into the waterlilies with you. Bathing in the pond of your embrace.
I find you locked love with many a key. Some wrapped in embraces with hearts, others cold brass. I look upon your windows. From the ground floor, balloons of dreams and hope launch from inside of me. Please look out your window, I’m begging you.
Written as part of a challenge. Details can be found at.