Scene 2

Oeanea

     Oh, the world is a gaping cancer wound- my world, Phaedra, she is my world, and she is lost to delierium.  She refuses food, and yet remains plump, but her face is a wasting like an autumn leaf flaking away to harmonies of dusk.  What harmony yet in her regality as she lilts to a soul’s genocidal whim.  Is it a whim this despair she throws herself into as into a Scylla and Charabda.  She throws herself about the ceremonial hall with a formality of pomp, what forbearance yet in her shattered state.  Yert can we lift her ashen face from ghost’s narrow cove, from the shadow cast of within ghost’s caves.  What can we do?


                                                            Servant


     I haven’t heard yet of this the Queen’s despair until but a half-hour ago, how she seems to hover above her sick-bed like a spent phantom, how she moors herself within tempests of deathly fervour.  In the din of ecstacy is her mind caught within the deafening roar of doom-bells chanting their sonourous echo of colours gross.






Phaedra walks in.

Phaedra

     My tears are ornaments to my shame.  They glisten like crystal optics to amplify the image of my hear’s deepest marrows of darkness, of my heart’s cavernous inwards my tears glisten like jewels in a dwarve’s mine, to display my shame within the mire-encrusted caverns of my heart with the crying heavy lids of jewels glowing, like eyes in a cave, the cave my conscience, my conscience full of eyes like teardrops, my shame awash with blinding sight, the sight of my confessions, my confessions to my closet, my mirror, my pillow, all my willowy voice bending to the marshes of its gurgling rhapsody of woe, my drowning voice, drowning as it confesssess to the props of my solitude.


                                                            Oeanea


     Oh, heavens, what is this self mourning like one would be lost in the rocky cliff faces of a waterfall of grief.  You collapse before me.  What confessions are to blindly sheet-lightning in their heartstricken to the doom bell chime, what confession strikes the hour of a clock whch knows the strings of your heart like its own wirrs and cogs.    Is there any confession you can bestow upon me for my forgiving eye  to settle with compassionate heart-lightening sorrow and commiseration for all-too familier sin.  Your sin-sorrrow meets my own familiar bedfellows of my familiars, my emanations of sin which enact in imagination all that has cast down upon itself a a compassionate eye of night, the moon, the pale light of pale knowledge.   The moon nods and winks at our sins cast under a nightime spell.  What of your sins, the marrow’s weed of your confessions, it is but a night’s toy, your malefaction.