Orchids Always

Ron Koppelberger

Orchids Always

The warning tinctured the difference between respite and wicked breadths of shock. Flay Lodestar offered the prostitute a crisp advance of fifty dollars. She dared his offering with an exotic gossip.
Quiet fires, endless treasures of breath, cleaving exhalations, sympathetic with his caution, his destiny in pausing speculation; he waited for her to begin, the tale, the legend in scarlet, the myriad of bonded maxim. “A secluded orchid in the sea of spirit, “ she began, “ Cheapened by the last love of a dying dream, of a sailing raven borne in feathered confusion, the seeker might discern the words of a common desire and the passion of a revolution in secret. The orchid is allayed by the will of a seconds storm. This is where court the province of bidden sensual allure and the cold hands of fate, in bond and blood. Look for the blossoms depth, the delight of the bred gambol between light and silhouettes in winter fury.” she paused, a gypsy, a prostitute, the forbearance of a bandit, for she took his ease and gave him an orchid, in bloom, in utter abandon and wild rage. He needed love and he sought the comfort of a merciful delusion. She thought nonesuch and he worried her fear. The time to come, the wonts of the coming revolt, by rain and dark cloudy evenings, yet still he was in need and she was the flicker of hope for his course. He would only kiss her, to enjoy her as he deemed close to the flow of what should be real. He knew the time but all he desired was the comfort of the orchid in always.