Fatal, inevitable, inescapable.
A victim of desire, infinite passion and heartfelt obsession.
A dreamer, a warrior of love, a merciless killer.
Pierre is in love again.
Yet Madeline is nothing like poor Columbine.
She is rich, married and endlessly bored;
corrupted, a sinner, a barren, palace whore.
She and her decadent court, without a trace of propriety,
require daily entertainment of extraordinary variety;
young maids and their dogs, local jesters, a juggler with his fiery torch.
Orient dancers and puppeteers,
pantomime to laugh till their eyes are filled with tears.
Still pining for love, all in pantomime,
yet Madeline is so much more than Columbine.
He is enchanted by her honeysuckle smell,
her buttery skin, her beady eyes, the way her dress fell.
The way she moves her fan when she is displeased,
the fan is always closed when she is kissed.
She lets him touch her everywhere,
he is hers to kiss and hers to share.
Still Madeline is no Columbine,
(Pierre's eyes shine)
but she may soon be,
unless she is wise enough to see...
It was the news that her husband
will soon return from his travel,
that this story began to unravel.
Her fan was immediately picked up and forced open at once,
then it started to writhe like a dying fish in her hands:
"You should leave Pierrot.
I shall have you no more!"
Columbine's dead face
broke free from Pierre's sealed memory case.
He saw her writhing in his hand,
just like Madeline's red velvet and lace fan.
She was a liar and a cheat,
dancing around with naked feet,
"the cold lake suits you fine,
ragged and pale Columbine."
His hand around her neck
strangling a tiny scream,
the evil fan falls mutely onto the floor.
Her folded body inside the sack.
It's laden with stones.
It mutely hits the cold lake floor,
and so did the heavy lid on the wooden memory box
until Pierre falls in love again,
and opens up for more.
