The Curse

Ron Koppelberger

The Curse

Realms of sated light shone in arrays of beauty on the gentle features of her brazen countenance. She carried the bond of perfection and allied seasons of youth, in childlike innocence. Her eyes shone fire, hearth flames of desire and the essence of passionate enchantment. The infinite and mysteries of unbound secret turned down with her pouting lips, in mists, in ethereal assurance, in still silence and breaths of sustained hunger.
The want of a dreaming groom, the needs of a passing parishioner, in worshiping admiration and enveloping symmetries of time, the statue was a poised supplication unto the gods of bliss, the forces of ageless possession and absolute dominion in the love of a better dream; a dream of tomorrow and the twilight before, a dream of yesterday and the dawn after, he had personified a dream.
His craft in sculpting, his forte in the chiseled alabaster features of an angel, the unbidden thrall of sweet ecstasy, blossoms in icy winters, rain in dry deserts. She was his creation, his expression of divinity, rapture in truth, and the world knew, and they cherished, they exalted, they bought the burden of a glance toward the stone goddess and he became jealous with want for the secret he had revealed. The curse, the moment of incomparable comparables, nothing would suffice and to naught the effort at new creation, for want of a mate she would long.
He was betrothed in imperfect union and he obsessed with the end of his life never quite achieving that sated perfection for all his fame and fortune and the pampered talents of those who live easy, wealthy, well fed by the starved desire for true love.
He saw this on his deathbed, he had achieved and it had been his curse as well as his immortal salvation.