Milady
There she goes entirely in black lace, enclosed by lifeless roses;Grinning arrogantly as a hyena, possessing souls of all degrees,
Approaching tower fences, pushing the gates aside as powder fuzz,
Swallowing giant lambs as if they were plastic toy soldiers without armours;
Shivering, lonely in the hours of shadows; ghosts crawling in pillows,
Losing their nails, shouting nightly gospels down the bed pillars,
Be cautious dearest, don't awaken the dead lady.
Branded for life, she goes on riding on tree-tops, ignoring the vision
That one day her head will be chopped off with a heavy axe:
Rolling down the hill with bleeding nostrils.
Couldn't they find a thicker rope? No, don't blame the neck,
The feet should have been running faster!
Easy, easy, keep her on a chain at least a bit,
Or the world will be wiped under her feet, as if it's nothing but a crumble.
There it goes, the count's playing field, with it's filthy ponds –
Isn't it beautiful when one's scared to death of an anonymous life form?
It creeps there, with it's teeth and claws, sharp like blades,
Smart as Cicero's quotes. Yes, the brain remains in the claws:
The harder it hits, the more it loves you.
Labelled as a snake, stamped as a double-dealer,
taking all earthly sections under her tail, sliding through barracks,
slivering men's desires into short erotic stories, drinking their soreness,
as if it was the finest bloody coffee one could order,
And reminiscing of nothing but her own undomesticated fantasy;
Sometimes her head becomes so silent, that the snowflakes falling
Seem to bang, monstrously devouring the sink in the kitchen;
Any human conviction is absent, hallucinating visions of betrayal:
Ah, if only some odd force could stop the nightmares for a night or two.
There she goes utterly mystified, sheltered in massive fortification ornaments,
Thinking that nothing but the privileged sphere could bring her down,
Whilst the pope is preparing the crypt, locking up authors and warriors in chains,
whispering the verdict of multiple felonies, countless immoral deeds;
Remorseless, not blinking an eye, pride on the pedestal - sadness behind bars:
A woman, countess, should by no means show her tears to the public;
How can they not see through the act? Subtly understated, flourishing towards nobility,
however downgrading aristocracy might be – striving higher towards some status,
so what if crime stood in the way, where's the wrong in stepping over bodies?
Everlastingly trying to run into the open, pleading for just one gentle breath;
Look over the horizon, darling, the executioner is ready, won't you save
What all the rest abandoned? Does she really look that merciless?
Stay! Pose for a second, maybe you can see the stain through the glass?
Not all of it is porcelain, but gowns of madness can be even finer:
Fate uses thinner threads for a greater cause, valuing the daring road
and the ones who take it - like Milady -
one must struggle for a wealthier throne, for the leading sapphire,
Inconsiderately of weaker souls, only life matters until you're beheaded..
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 713 times
Written on 2006-12-18 at 00:58
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Catacomb Villain |
|
FrancescaLuca |
|
|
|
Teala |
| Texts |
 by FrancescaLuca Latest textsStillHurricane Office Man Waves Polaroids |
Increase font
Decrease