Cul pis Don

Golden Girl and the Black Touch.

Night was wearing away. Warm sweat and cold drinks were but soft memories in the mind of the loud drinkers who watched more patiently than passionately the dancers in the hall of darkness. Time was drawing near; yet Golden Girl still had in her mind the hot searing of a colourful night, some time ago, some dream ago. She was wearing her best suit: golden hue and a tight belt, her light flowing all around her like a belly dancer in the dark clouded night. She felt lonely and desolate, a cold dreary plain blown by the wind of desperation; still she clung to hope like a last post of her infinite sadness, not daring to let fall her own despair in the chill of the wind that came from herself.

Three they were, black as they were. Young and powerful in the magnitude of their youth; a cold tempting hope which drew light to themselves. And she felt it, as it was, the expectation of something greater, something bigger. So she danced as she did, in the pitch of their ignorance, in the lack of their faith. And they laughed in the silence of their own, darkening the bottom of her desire. Yet, she kept dancing: a Golden Girl in a golden hall, prisoner of her own desire, victim of their silence, or was it her own?

The fabric of her tunic flying down and low, she hoped for several minutes for her end to come near, yet it faded in the night of her own despair. What then? Like a ballet dancer with a soft foot, she danced her shame away ‘til  the night wore to day, alone in her corner, oblivious to the looks of those for whom she cared not. Like that who turned her away, she did to so many. But who cared to ask her if she felt  the day draw near? None but herself in the cold dreams of her broken thoughts.