Christabelle's Salvation
By Abyssia
Ungranted prayers are haunting.We are frozen in forever,My Christabelle and I -The touch of her lifeless faceBrings a psychometric day-mareThat haunts my misspent youth,And dulls the bruised twilightWhose light threatens through Dust soiled ivory curtains. Once her naivete sparkledIn cornflower star struck eyes.A strange, lovely instrumentalOnce whispered in chords throughHer flaxen curls, tied back withInnocence and chaste satin ribbon...Back when crushed velvet midnightWas her very Sunday best, And the lilies that bloomed in Mother's garden were no matchFor her fair complexion, save for The peach roses in her cheeks. My then so treasured angel,Now corrupted by a devil's breath;Baptized with unholy blood.The simplest of glances, andDreaded reminiscense pours.My Christabelle's scathed charismaMurmers like a curse riding the wind.That early morning day of GodFloods back to me in muted shrieks.Her vacant eyes so blue reflectOur ill-fated discovery;The soft threads of her cherishedDress still matted with crimson,And her faded petals remain smearedBy the blot of Mother's flesh.Her virtues, stained with mania.Caked in her golden tressesThe scarlet jewels still hide;And her solemn pout, once thoughtA smile, pierces the tabernacleThat we once called a home. Her music no longer enchants me;My Christabelle's guarded salvationHas been revoked by memories.Okay.... this is supposed to be about a porcelain doll Written October 9th, 2001 © on Oct 09 2001 05:39 AM PST 18 • 1
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"Ungranted prayers are haunting.We are frozen in forever,My Christabelle and I -The touch of her lifeless faceBrings a psychometric day-mareThat haunts my misspent youth,And dulls the bruised twilightWhose light threatens through Dust soiled ivory curtains. Once her naivete sparkledIn cornflower star struck eyes.A strange, lovely instrumentalOnce whispered in chords throughHer flaxen curls, tied back withInnocence and chaste satin ribbon...Back when crushed velvet midnightWas her very Sunday best, And the lilies that bloomed in Mother's garden were no matchFor her fair complexion, save for The peach roses in her cheeks. My then so treasured angel,Now corrupted by a devil's breath;Baptized with unholy blood.The simplest of glances, andDreaded reminiscense pours.My Christabelle's scathed charismaMurmers like a curse riding the wind.That early morning day of GodFloods back to me in muted shrieks.Her vacant eyes so blue reflectOur ill-fated discovery;The soft threads of her cherishedDress still matted with crimson,And her faded petals remain smearedBy the blot of Mother's flesh.Her virtues, stained with mania.Caked in her golden tressesThe scarlet jewels still hide;And her solemn pout, once thoughtA smile, pierces the tabernacleThat we once called a home. Her music no longer enchants me;My Christabelle's guarded salvationHas been revoked by memories.Okay.... this is supposed to be about a porcelain doll..."