Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ dornröschen (mtr.)

Grimm, regarding Perrault’s vision;
in the long lull of his lingering, her repose has only deepened. Perhaps it is the scent of his soul  (settling into her like molten gold poured into crucible)  that is the reason for the shift through her figure; makes her silver arms reach through slumber and presses a favoring arc into her marked spine; makes the gaunt hips strain, shy and seeking as she stretches; makes her veil the other cheek upon the mosses, breath faint and unsettled; so Andraste nestles into the earth, hushed, heady.

Awaiting, unknowing; alone entire, in this alcove that was a creaking cradle; amber, cathedral. Woven vaulting of autumnal antechamber; leaves sifted, burnished by the gilded stained glass of morning.

When first the priest had arrived, he had summoned her reawakening with the whisper of his syllabary upon pale lips. What, then, keeps her from rousing, now?  Perhaps not all of her knows he is here, where the deep honey of harvest found the sleeping and the shrouded. Unending and darkened, this gold; the ebb of her heart faltering.

Within languor there are songbird sighs; underlain with sensuality which the silver again was ignorant to. The choirlord wished not to refigure her; and yet before him the ruined and ne’er-lovely reposer crooned in slumber to the wildling whispers that shivered within his soul-chords. Orphic; her throat, timorous, tempting, strummed itself along lichens; some softened murmur from shorn lips, misted, and it might have been his name, should the musiker thread nearer.

Even restful, Mahler still unravels her by thought alone. He must see, must know— lashes aquiver— her bewitcher, yes—