Broken Strings

The night was moonless, the air crisp with late-fall air. The soft crunching of leaves filled the empty town. Only a single mare walked the streets at this wee hour. Her face was covered with a mask of white and red stripes. The stripes spilled from the open hole on the forehead of the mask, revealing a thin, mauve colored horn. Shadows hid her eyes, leaving only deep hallow black sockets. All of the lights in every little cottage were out, the alley ways in-between dark with mystery. The mare was a ghostly figure in the darkness, a beautiful witch of the night. She walked slowly down the pathway, looking straight ahead. A single leaf fell from the oak canopy above her head. Her ear twitched and her legs pushed away from the ground. The mare flew through the air swiftly, landing without a sound on a low hanging branch. Shadows hid her pale flesh well, casting a devilish grin across her masked face. She sang a soft tune, looking up into the graying dawn. Two sides to every face, two parts to every day. You can not touch the music, but my music will touch you.