Friday, October 8, 2010

Seasons of The Witch

Drifting above the mire--
a cool damp mist shroud
gray on gray on black
she comes.

She promises everything.

She says nothing
(very... articulately)
and as I lay down
overcome by her touch
her sweet black magic,
the last thing that I know:
her rouge-inflected grin
is only for the season;
her kiss, her tongue
holds sibilant secrets
only for her true lord.

I am a thief

I am a victim

And soon nothing:
a skull on a silver chain
a memory of weakness
ponderous gothic lullaby
whispered by the moon
to the nightbirds calling
the names of the dead
and forgotten in the wake
of her misty cloak of
momentary desire and


Ultra Toast Mosha God said...

I liked how you were a thief then a victim. Everyone steals something in that place. And the value of it is fluid - until context of some sort sets it in stone.


Charles Gramlich said...

You're talking my language here. I like this a lot. This would make a great prose story methinks as well.

benjibopper said...

I had the same thought as Charles that this could be expanded into a prose story. But it says a lot already, in so few words. Impressive. Rumble young man rumble.

Dulce said...

WOW this is brilliant... the more i read you the more i like you... i mean your poetry of course.. these lines shine with a magic bliss....oh
I am a thief

I am a victim
Say so much about the love twisters... said...

Sorry, Eric,

Late night ramblings of a madman.
Solipsism. Your excellent poem jogged something in me from the past.
I forgot my own advice never to write anything ugly.
I should have self-deleted to last comment in your space...Maybe saved it for the coffee house.

Donnetta Lee said...

Yes, I agree. A good one. Good work. D

Enemy of the Republic said...

Your writing is so awesome.

BTW-I tried to email you. Here is my new URL: