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The world was thick with green. Clouds hung dark in the sky. The wind swept through the trees. Spring is not always a time of stillness. In the deep of the night the dark iris blooms. It stained my ceiling with purple and left juice like blackberries on my fingers. My nameless one.

I was beautiful in the light of the forge. I was beautiful in the stage light after the revels. I was beautiful in a dry land. I was beautiful in the moonlight. But you do not know my name. I am the dark iris which opens at night. I am a Nycteris. I am beloved of the darkness, but not that of evil. I am beloved of the stillness, of the moon shadows, of the starry sky. And you do not know my name.

Your golden girl is perfectly crafted, carved of the zypher’s brush, kissed by the great god of desire. You do not see the decay within. You do not see the rot, the filth, the pestilence, the plague. She is crafted of death and veiled in deceit. Those who formed her have remade you. You are what they want, now.

The world was still as dusk gathered the night into goodness. You are no longer welcome here. Death clings to you and I’ll only remember how you pitied me. I do not pity your nightly walks with death herself. I lift up you and the one who helped to make you what you are. God save you from your delusion.

In the spring, the world was thick with green. I walked there on the heights. I was beautiful as the first day of creation, bathed in Shekina glory. He saw me and He loved me. But it was in the darkness of night I was born.

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