A poetic journey through my mind

Archive for March 28, 2017

The Bad Thing

Softly she stumbles,
Silently weeping,
Down past the rooms where her children lie sleeping,
Down the dark stairs she goes cautiously creeping,
No light required, her feet know the way.

On one hand soft fingers hold tear stained note lightly,
The other a fist on which knuckles show whitely,
Fear, rage and shame are all mingling tightly,
As outside the nighttime brightens toward day.

Soon she’ll be leaving the note so deceiving,
her heart deep in grieving for memories lost, while upstairs the villain snores loudly, sleeps soundly, midst blankets and pillow as if by storm tossed.

And young ones will wonder at lives torn asunder, how silently thunder can come in the night, filling lifes pages with a nightmare of rages, forcing the caged bird to finally take flight.


Mirrorrim

 

Mirror mirror on the wall, hanging there so silently, can you see me here at all, or do you stand in awe of me?

See my skin as white as snow, see my smile as sharp as thorn, behind my lips so rosy red, a beauty grown, but never born.

My people love me, as they might, they laud my beauty and my grace, adore my hair as black as night, and see in me my mother’s face.

Mothers ash is buried deep, beneath the sacred Rowan tree, but should I cry beneath its shade, I hear her voice still speak to me.

Blood red tears soak through the ground, nourishing the thirsty earth, and whispering the leaves take voice, echoes of her cruel mirth.

Stepmother, fear me as you should, for though you may have fathers ring, tis I who owns his beating heart…in me, the conscience of the king.

Huntsman with your sharpened knife, you track me for the queen so good, a single kiss and you are mine, amazed amidst the darkened wood.

The beating heart, unlike my own, ensconced within a box of gold, and carried to stepmother dear, a tragic tale will soon be told.

By animals in forest deep, my body torn too much to save, the heart the only evidence, to lay beside my mother’s grave.

From kitchen knave to scullery maid, soon all in mourning deep will be, whilst I move through them whisper soft, feeding on the tragedy.

And then, replete, I’ll slip away, down to the caverns dark and deep, far from the biting of the sun, where spirits howl and duergar creep.

There among the little men, I’ll sleep until I thirst again, then waken, smiling in my bliss, to share again my blood red kiss.