Blood-Velvet Dream Sequence

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A song; it echoes on a bridge of sanguine glass, over teal-streaked moonlight banisters, flowing over stairways to the heavens. It comes to me from across a far off place, one promised to me in the early days of my life, lost swiftly to a sable-coated sunset, casting shadows on days and nights obliterated by time. Now I stand before a mirror of jaded brass, jilted in the haze-yellow amberlyn glow, bending in the image-distortion of aura-gold fractals, reflected in sun-flecked conflaguration of bronze-refracted still-composite, wearing red. This dress is a blood-velvet dream sequence played out in crimson calescence, amaranth satin feels so soft and melodic against my skin, outer inner-representation of the soft music in me, folded like pressed flowers to hang like a wreath around the places he's supposed to kiss. A philharmonic rock-opera plays in the illusive background, reminding me who I am while I enjoy this, and keeping who I want to be dear.