Gypsy

It was a day with crying skies, with gray skies and gray roads when I planted my steps towards nowhere   .

 

I remembered her as if she was in front of my eyes.  Her eyes as torn out of dreams.  They had the spectacular texture of onyx, and her smile was a strip cut from a majestic sphere of sacred dreams weighing heavy with chanting.

 

She was- because I had drunk the poison from her gods - she was an amalgam of dreams and surrealism; she was a wonderful chimera of my fear.

 

I, and I proclaim it now proudly, read the formula in her red gypsy dance, I read her lips, and her breasts and the dark, the arched arms and protective thighs.  Her gypsy skirt moving erratically in a pagan ballet, lively spinning broken circles.  The sense of rotation changing as abruptly as it began.  Thousands of colors, all garish in the sun and pale once in the shade.

 

So many faces in her skirt.  Anyway, she spun I saw another side and back to the other hidden side and hidden to other, and the other side and other side....  How many threads, how many roads hid in her skirt?  How many times I built my life.  I played; I spun dizzily and in the end became exhausted…

Back then, I knew everything.

 

Dancing red and black and naked in the middle of the road.

 

 There was nobody else to take her message to the damned, I was that only man crying, man weeping, sobbing man.

 

Since then I found monsters and creatures as they rushed over her memory.

 

Since then, I knew she penetrated the demons and angels, since then I knew she  unleashed and welcomed them, since then I knew my gypsy  turned into ordinary slut by heaven and hell, for the touch they brought knowing  I was not ever able to get as much as I wanted: a smile.

 

 


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atlantis
Short Story
Romance
writing atlantis
Sometimes it feels good not having to explain
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