She was the type, that women wanted to emulate.
She walked gracefully, posture perfect, draped in designer label sorrow.
Her shoes did not even touch the ground as she appeared to glide over surfaces, leaving no print on the earth.
Her sorrow wasn’t a burden on anyone, rather it was an inspiration.
A fresh waft of frankincense and white musk warmed with notes of heart clasp if she happened to raise her gaze your way.
She wore her sadness the way women struggled to wear joy, made theirs seem pseudo.
Tissues and handkerchiefs; her servants, waiting in cue to catch her tears but she never let one drop. Mascara run was not her thing.
Her secrets became her ability to cut through a crowd of chaos and demand silence and bewilderment, entrancing the mob until the crows that accompanied her flapped their wings past them.
And just like that they would all awaken, wearing black.
-W.E.
lonerloaner 