She told the truth, the insightful one, precise and sharp, terrible and accurate, an inescapable light shone in his every crooked corner. Both lovers swallow the sword; one the smooth edge of lies, the other, it’s jagged truths.
And it cost him everything, this exposition by the burned girl. Removing illusion and with it his pride and arrogance and self love and the hope he held against his own knowing, his warped world.
A tear dripped—his last drop of pride rolling with it downhill into the puddle that reflected the sad truth. Even the low floor was made to mirror in reminder. Small waves widen the popper’s puddle, each drop ringing the flat facts of a deflated and defeated man.
He never was any of those spired roofs tucked away in crooked corners. A monarch of flighty paths down others’ towering halls with only stories to sing about ‘oh how they echoed,’ convincing only to the unknowing and willingly befuddled daughters of great men who themselves know the sounds of the soft footsteps of liars and thieves but who somehow in their busyness and bustling and blind boring about through the wood of life, as those industrious carpenter bees do, forgot to remind their princesses —plump for the pricking with needles and by perennial pricks of deceit— of the sounds of these butterflies’ sugary songs, the lying patterns on their wings, the fragrance of the flighty, the tyranny of offense as good defense and vice versa—anything but the well rounded baritone sounds, for they take effort to stand out and be chosen amongst the choir, and minimal effort for the mounting is the motto of these bastard butterflies.
Both wired by the wicker-man for folly and deceit. Her hips as shapely as the twisted halls of his mind. Her ears bent for truths as he whispers, ducking behind each bend of brick, tempting her into her own fantasies.
She bites the worm and with it the hook. At the very moment of tension; what is the fisherman who loses his hunger upon victory over the Pisces pesca? A fucking criminal of wild life. A murderer. He may be more, in some artistic or inventive way, but in as far as god and that fish have mind to pay, he is a killer of life in its essence.
That fish unwinds herself eventually. She matures and paints her scars over—his and the others sure to follow. As he fumbles forward and somehow befuddlingly, upward, some poorer gal will find mercy enough to marry him, but this sad sack will soon find that the poor woman, the worn fish, too tired for her morning markings, carries more than scars and mercy; she harbors the sword of long boiled vengeance—not for him, but for his kind, for her ugly fate, for the sake of vengeance herself. Now ask yourself; from where do we derive our finest lipstick? Here the swimming sorrow speaks his destiny:
The truth. The past. The demand. With kindness and malice both, and never-minding that fisherman himself, to his death.