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Hecate's offspring

If I'd awaken in the morning and hear the phone go off,
If I'd be waiting for you to come back
and the wait would melt into eternity -
I'd instantly sense that you're descending to the place
you truly belonged to, to the endless bottom
your soul was conceived in -
while the engrossed human race would be biting it's knuckles
for breaking down the bastion of your trust,
for not treating you gently by caressing your lower back,
instead of kicking it to the ground
while your immensity was facing the other way;

You'd return to the underworld,
Where thorns of spiked metal wouldn't scratch your arms
And where emotions wouldn't stand in your way of
becoming a perverted poetical monarch
– listening to Orpheus on and on,
Having all the alcohol of the world served in crystal goblets,
While maids of mad beauty would be circling all around you
Like hungry gears - satisfying you from every angle,
giving up affairs with lesbian harpies
and three-headed dragons for a single high point with you;
Marching in front of decomposed skeleton armies,
Proudly converting virgins into whores,
You'd be living up to your intended potential;

If one sinister night I'd wake up realizing that
Your great physical shapes aren't pressed against
My humble, tiny body any longer -
I wouldn't know which fence to crawl on,
to escape my misery,
I would die on the inside,
closing myself down from laughter,
Hiding from daylight, warmth
and all things you've despised;
Hating the mortal kind – like an enraged wolf -
for treating you brusquely, beating you down
while your mind was still outlining;
Hell is notorious for it's supremacy to erase memories,
Like fire burning manuscripts
that were worked on for years,
But my soul would become mightier than magical tricks,
It would still creep to you once in a while during the hush-times.

Francesca would be waiting for your return,
Her eyes never shining again, unless with throbbing fury
And she'd sleep for days in a row
To experience you over and over in faded delusions.
Georgia would be crying her eyes out,
suffering like Persephone
And seeing fearsome creatures at the window bench,
So that even the dead lady wouldn't reach out to her as often -
She'd let her sleep out of mercy, swallowing the grief,
Murmuring stories of drowning souls, lullaby's of fallen angels;
Becoming her second shadow, cherishing her pain
As if she was nurturing Hecate's offspring.

I might sound foolish till the point of inaccurate mistrust,
But for once – my seriousness doesn't know it's limits,
My mind never trembling, my wish being firmer than a rock.
I want to be the woman who makes your legacy live on,
The one who grants you the gift you so desire,
Carrying your child before it's too late
and shaping it into your striking image;
I'm being watchful, we people should think logical,
Never over hurrying, scared that Mr. shock will jump out,
But maybe lady Fortune will make the contraceptives fail?
A product of your semen, growing inside of me,
Breathing tenderly – nine months
With your hands on my belly, wouldn't that be miraculous?

Having you live on no matter what, so that if you die tomorrow,
I still will hold a part of you in my arms,
I believe I'm strong enough to raise a warrior
And even though you don't trust anyone in this world –
You matter more than my own selfishness,
men or 50 year old women -
I want you more than ever..

Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 767 times
Written on 2007-01-09 at 22:00