Slowly she walks,
her white dress rustling,
her hips softly swaying,
to the sad nocturne
of thready voices
singing her name.

Her path leads along
the winding banks
of the river Deceit,
her words all but drowned
by the deafening whoosh
of its gurgling wild torrents.

She is called elusive,
a myth born of ignorance,
fed by the strident noise
and scratching chorus
of  those ruthless servants
kneeling before Apate’s shrine.

For in her holy well,
her abode of honour,
if one cares to listen,
her voice rings sonorous,
never reduced to a buzz
by the crackles of the mundane.

In there, when annoyed,
her anger speaks loudly,
spreading the truth
with a percussive force
resembling the whistle and pop
from a lash of a whip.

So she continues undisturbed,
which is the way of a goddess,
collecting more voices
for her choir of verity,
secure in the knowledge that
truth is not off-key and has no echoes.

 

© november child

photo credit: Darron Birgenheimer via flickr

in response to mindlovermisery’s menagerie Wordle Special Addition Sound !August 1st, 2016′
Advertisements