I want to be called spaghetti
The Moon-she hangs like a cruel portrait.
Soft winds whisper the bidding of trees. As this tragedy starts with a shattered glass heart and the Midnightmare trampling of dreams.
But oh, no tears please. Fear and pain may accompany Death. But it is desire that shepherds it's certainty as we shall see...
She was divinity's creature that kissed in cold mirrors-A Queen of snow. Far beyond compare lips attuned to symmetry sought Her everywhere. Dark liqoured eyes, an Arabian nightmare. She shone in watercolours of my pondlife as pearl until those who couldn't have Her cut Her free of this World, That fateful Eve when the trees stank of sunset and camphor. Their lanterns chased phantoms and threw an inquisitive glance, like the shadows they cast on my love picking rue by the light of the moon. Putting reason to flight or to death as their way, They crept through woods, mesmerized by the taffeta ley of Her hips that held sway over all they surveyed-save a mist on the rise. (A deadly blessing to hide) Her ghost in the fog. They raped left (Five men of God). Dawn discovered Her there, beneath the cedar's stare. Silk dress torn, Her raven hair flown to gown. Her beauty bared was starred with frost, I knew Her lost. I wept 'til tears crept back to prayer. She'd sworn me vows in fragrant blood "Never to part, Lest jealous Heaven stole our hearts." Then this I screamed: "Come back to Me! For I was born in love with thee so why should fate stand in between?" And as I drowned Her gentle curves with dreams unsaid and final words, I espied a gleam trodden to earth the Churchbell tower key. The village mourned her by the by, For She'd been a witch. Their men had longed to try. And I broke under Christ seeking guilty signs-my tortured soul on ice. She was Ersulie possessed of a milky white skin. My porcelain Yin-A graceful Angel of Sin.
And so for Her...The breeze stank of sunset and camphor. My lantern chased Her phantom and blew. Their Chapel ablaze and all locked in to a pain. Best reserved for judgement that their Bible construed. Putting reason to flight or to flame unashamed-I swept form cries, mesmerized by the taffeta ley or Her hips that held sway over all those at bay, Save a mist on the rise of Her ghost in the fog
Forgive the day's last serenades, Her skies they bruise like Nordic women. Deep crimson stains that Death would claim His robes of office swim in. As would I, for his dark eye has fixed, a basilisk, a scythe on charred remains with shared disdain for those I chose to mortify. Their cries have paralysed, And the smoke has choked these vistas. But still I lie, though tears have died on the grave of my Clarissa. A verse for her whispered to the earth (A lover's curse is a see-through coffin) Praises her curves so oft concurred. Though She was no Snow White on the night She died. Her shadower's boon when the moon glazed over-lipped with blood and secrets pried. For on and in they spread her wide-that seraph bride, The Devil's pride shalt soon avenge with swift reprise. But they would writhe for my dark eye-bewitched, was fixed like Mordecai's On Esther's reign. And in this vein I saw their lust still stain her thighs. Beneath these trees where the mist enwreathes, Her spirit flees, seeing chains of torches a fleeting kiss stirring leaves of poetry: I was: No dark knight, breaking men like ice. I was like a lycanthrope until the moon glazed over. Lipped with blood and last goodbyes. Now I dream enwrapt in pure clouds of the sweetest oblivion. Where beauty streams,
freed from the teeth of those beasts that had come to tear out her spells in red lettered cells. Wherein even the crown prince of Hell-Come out of his arrogant shell-would falter to better. But Her face soon dispels. And as black feathers fell
from Heaven's smoke, So I woke to insanity. Her exquisite corpse found fit for their sport, of course- Would burn on the morrow with me. And there on this night-strung up in my sight, naked she sways, displayed for their vulgar delight. I scream through my bars at the stars that for these crimes of mine solace me. I will fear not the flames that to passion are tame. Not nearly the same searing pain (I pray) as held sway upon losing her. Nor the mettle of roars that will settle like ashes and scores. As with our ghosts in the fog when we both turn no more•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••I'm over the entire "about me" garbage
Seriously though, I'm funny as hell