The shrouded sweet pea.

        

                      A marshmallow scent of a comforting hug. A scattered soul with a need to lash out. 

        An empath that radiated jollity across the landscape.  An angry mourner for the loss of innocence, trust, and loyalty.         

                                              The one who felt everything and then nothing.      

  

         Far away and in the ancient, a creeper-twined and sunlight-warmed home where the gothic turrets peaked through and the bailey rang with sounds of militant valour, a king reigned wise and fair. His wealth, he noted, as a pallid son from the Queen, a sweetpea daughter of his beloved, and a halcyon kingdom.

        Then came the disease of greed. Men and their schemes cut through the Emperor's treasure. Hollowing the kingdom and sinking its talons into the King's soul. The sweetpea shrivelled and the son scattered away in the face of the infestation. The realm, drowning in waters of dread and dismay, gasped for mercy, for an end.

       For the hellfire that coursed through the kingdom, a blood lust rose in a soul and retribution reigned supreme. With the spirit shining brighter than Sirius, incinerating through the pestilence emerged a beacon of power.  Against those who called it a plague for the unforeseen soul to rise, a fatal rebellion lashed. Anyone in the way trampled through.

                                             The throne then housed its true bearer, a power true.

 

               What was she if not a regal pirouette of joy, a gentle spring shower dotting the nascent blossoms?  What is she if not the burning cauldron of emotions and a swirling bogue of hurts, great and small?

               The face that spoke of grace and elegance, patience and gullibility, was now contorted.                                                                         Twisted. Shrouded.


              She was the sword she wielded. She, once the sweet pea was now poison ivy.








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