Memento Mori
by Neith Hale

You reminded me
of ruined castles,
polluted skies,
and brought home
tenebrous smiles
packed inside a paper bag
wet with dew
from her eyes.
The music was filled
with a horrific
caesura,
where knives
made it their home.

Black were the daisies,
white were their roots
and the soil was
nourished with acids.
Bugs were laced
with an impending
misfortune
as they crawled,
an army of soldiers
surrounding the grave.

There was
not a moon
but a purple sun
a royal, a jewel,
as dawn came to rise.
An ember that turned
waters into icebergs.

I saw, too,
faint memories
as fair as the courtesan
that danced in the
crowded room,
crowded with the male species
of a mortal race.
Her lips were
precious rubies,
fruits that hung on trees,
trees that grew
only in paradise
and sperms fought for hell.

Lovers kissed
the bitter red
and death’s roots broke the
crust.
Seven lines of poetry
were murdered by
an enraged wind
who soon ended
the existence of life
it unceremoniously touched.

Dead wood thrived,
remembered only in the fading songs
sung by minstrels.
Buried alive were the
memories that soon haunted
the lonely houses
that lived in solitude
atop the seven hills.