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Poetry » Love » Muse 1 font: B s : A A A . width: full 3/4 1/2
Author: Grey Lemaire
Fiction Rated: T - English - Poetry/Supernatural - Published: 04-12-08 - Updated: 04-12-08 - Complete - id:2503366

Lilies trail behind her there

And tangle in her midnight hair

As down into the pit she goes.

The stars kiss her blanching toes

And bright tears fill her twinkling eyes

As they sing her sweet good byes.

A little of their light she brings

To vales where paupers walk with kings.

She shines upon them even now;

The white light dancing on her brow.

They turn towards her virgin limbs,

Softly humming murmured hymns,

For she is Hope and she is Spring:

The unwilling bride of Hades’ king,

Who loves him as a victim can

And sees beyond the sins of Man.

The Spirits who forget their names,

Who get no joy from mortal games,

Know that she alone is fair

And is denied her Goddess’ share.

They warm her with their hands of mist

And shake the red seeds from her fist

And beg her to run, run away;

To fly out on the break of day.

She looks on them with wondering eyes

And mourns for them with heavy sighs

Knowing they themselves condemn;

That nothing good is left for them.

Life was not but endless yearning

For something full and bright and burning.

She pined for it like nothing since.

It brought to her a hungry prince

Who drank her body, soul and blood

And crushed her like a fragile bud.

Beauty, once, did tame a beast,

But he was human once, at least.

While sleeping in the rotting leaves

The lingering world above her grieves.

It dreams of fields where lilies grow,

Of flowers pushing through the snow.

Worshipped by the king she lies

Half in sleep with half-mast eyes,

Loving death and dead for love,

Forsaking all that walks above.

She knows it to be what she dreamed:

Sorrow; sweetness; wrong redeemed.

But often in nightmares she sees

Shadows moving in the trees,

And in her sharp and subtle ears

The ebbing whisper of her fears...

And crawling o’er her petal skin

Lips that call her unto Sin.

She tastes the ash and dust of him,

The salt of memories old and dim,

And in the fragrant perfumed dell,

She can sense the smothering smell:

Black stallions spewing sulph’rous breath.

The Goddess of the Gentle Death.



© Copyright 2008 Grey Lemaire (FictionPress ID:535035).


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