A breaching Portmanteau.

Mirrors. Speculums of phantasmagoria, mirages of dreams. How magical of them! How insanely spellbinding! Their otherworldly imbroglio of exquisite altercations, their playful, almost jesting sorcery. Their charm, their delusive grasping hook. A sorcery way beyond sheer averageness pounds and flutters in the fairest of umbrages, as my gaze meets two unfathomable pits which taste of cocoa and mahogany. What are they? Who do they belong to? A grimace so mundane, yet redoubtably mystifying, as though ruthlessly ripped from the fated heart of a random fairy. Her blood tenderly stains two rosy cheeks with nervy coyness. I beam in fiendish delight, and her scowl surrenders to a blooming scintilla of twinkling morning dew. She zealously mimics my childish moue in glee, and we laugh and laugh, and we cry and cry. Her raven hair frames an effulgence I conceitedly surrender to. For who am I to loathe such inestimable garner of scars? Our stagecraft throbs in reciprocity as I fecklessly reach out to grasp her, lure her, worship her. 

Art, they say, embodies a craft so labyrinthine, few dare to give away their soul to its amaranthine infinitude. But I disagree! I do! Since no portraying feels as luscious as the one our light depicts. Mirrors! Speculums of wonders, of assertive bewilderment, of restrained liberation! How miraculous of them! How extraordinary! 

Just like us.

Addah Monoceros.

Quasar.

When rainbows comprised beatitude and mulled my soul with hope,

No hindrance whatsoever dared to gridlock such steep slope.

And still my heart throbs in my chest, imploring me to yield,

But this ripe drought shall not appease, for it subsumes a shield.

Cheers to your nerve! They uttered, as though fear existed not.

Yet I can feel it grasping every qualm and twinge and thought.   

Its acrimonious icicle annihilates the truce,

Which nourishes my inner faith with rosy valiant juice.

Defiance, I know, gathers guts and grit and fearlessness,

Since who am I to loose myself in anguish and bareness? 

My aims tower in fairylands, though droll as they may seem,  

No deed will ever juxtapose the pursuing of this dream. 

Addah Monoceros.

Plumule plume.

A baleful cage of wintry woe

Locked in my sins, poured out my glow — 

For scroungers of my craving heart 

Defaced my soul, tore it apart

Dislodging scraps of hooking jones,

Effetely clinging to my bones. 

  

But when the dusk glanced down at me

I relished his curiosity,

My plumage quavered bright and fair,

Auroral damsel in despair.

Hence pristine I met him, such pawn,

Seraph and framer of my dawn.

And yet my quaking was not fear,

More of a timid cloying tear — 

A rush of joy, hovering bliss,

No soaring had compared to this —

The sky's embrace, its blasting kiss

Enticing lush, obscene to miss.

Jail was a peccant parlous spoor,

And he breezed in to breach its door

Thus healing my bruises and stings,

Then goading me to spread my wings

Beyond my dreamlands, and above,

What is this feeling? — Must be love.

Addah Monoceros.