The texture of mistrustful eyes. The whispers in the candle light. The conspiring buzz of sand on glass dressed in tattered silk dragged across marble skin; I know the sound.

It plays like a  symphony and I sink into the panic of violins playing notes flat in the mirrors, where stone-faced gods sneer at me with the dull grey eyes of the dead. I feel the pressure building in the air as the sun sinks deeper, and the music lulls with the melancholy fancy of lethargic piano keys beneath the silver, glittered light of the -

Red! Oh, the red sway of memory in rooms lit by firelight, where they peer into the cracks of your skull and detach the thoughts from their intent. The pressure reasserts itself in the air while the wagging tongues and wagging lips run off with mingling voices of gentle strain. They sing melodies of starving days - conspired with the devil, they say, never lifting the shroud or veil from strange behaviour to reveal pained existence.

The faces leer from the corners, from out the shadows, and their faces contort to malicious joy, lips pulled into the curved traces of angel wings while I feel worms crawl beneath my skin.

Burn the witch. As if I'm a revelation, the temptress of the arcane and unholy, the demonic abattoir of established security. Burn the sinner, say the saints. 

Whimpering lips do not assuage men in congregation, fearful tears do not relent the pounding accusations. 

Ask the women, and we will say the real evils are the power-mongering men. Burn the men. Burn the saints, says the sinner. 

Prove my innocence by the act of death. Prove my devotion by faith in fire. Sneer at the wicked, and I will hold up the mirror to the men.

The orchestra pounds faster and the effigy is ready for the festivities. I could rip out my heart and fling it at the self-holy grin on the Magistrate's face. I could scream and thrash and kick to the sickening beat of damnation in the music of men.

I wish I was a witch. A curse upon them all. A whispered curse like the whispers in the dark; the lightest sound you'll ever hear.

***

Stare at the corners in the shadows,
smile from behind the veil,
lips curved in the traces of wings,
floating fingers drift through the glitter
flying down from white chandeliers.

Sink into the panic of the violins
that sneer at the mirrors that gaze
with blue and grey eyes back at you,
drown in the lifting, lilting sigh
of piano keys beneath the tarp
of melting silk in the light.

Soft blink of satin lids and
swinging song of memory
in a red room with a window
through the skull, ready to serve,
prepared to reassert
into the building pressure
of loose tongues and looser lips,
the mingling voices of gentle strain
that sing of starved out days.

Descend into the crumbling buzz
of sand on glass in harrowed dress,
it is the lightest sound you've ever heard.