The Tale of Unfaire

Upon didst she I –

The foul prince of fools
Perch’d incommodiously upon thatched throne
Bleach burnt
Purged
Sanctified
Devoid of any adore
In Draconian accord
Of a mind un-full intent
Lest drapered finery believed own
Prove naught but rent
Once exposed to thine aire
Only to tatter
Unweave
In a cost ill afford.
Entombed by crumbled cards
And stoned resolve
Allowing but
Pricks of sun light pin
To puncture the security of oblivion
Of the hollowed within –

Engaged wast I
Abject in deject of unself reject
Cursed of being without a where
Punctuated by an etched frown
Lopsided to noble visage
As the paper templed crown

Lithe and small,
Gaze to the floor
She stood to me a fore
If she had not been such alien
To the images of predominant thought
Positioned so to be but a meager of measure
The question first would have been
Of how she gained entrance
To this place built purposely undoor.

I did attempt to ignore such a blatant intrusion
But her nakedness of alabaster flesh creamed slick
Pained these eyes
Accustomed to my constructed night’s thick.

“What of me do you request,”
I said in curt but tainted half behest.

“Love you,” she stated slow and sure
As if apace with the gait of a turtle
Rather than the welcomed scurry of a edged mouse.

Glared did I
As the acid spoken
Permeated through this crusted flesh
Only to further churl the unsettled waters of doubt
Contained deep within.
How dare she
To invade the core of my me
With such an ugly vile plea

I heaved from the throne my body
And roared
“Love me? Do you now?
For what travesty hast been upon me placed
That such a harsh sentence impaled
With such lack of solace!”

Stillness of the unnatured silence
Stood tween her and sought answered demand
Eyes that had been avert down
Rose –

Emeralds afloat in a small ivory pond
That captured the attent with their glisten
Commanding muted listen-

“Beg thy pardon of own,”
Said she in quieted boom
That the very echoes graced
Their dance upon each wall of my tomb
“But thine words to thee
Were of reflect –
By no means inflect.”

A step toward did she take
Yet in numb
A counter back didst I hesitate
To action none did I make
Then another step
Til if her breath were talons
Across my facial flesh they could rake

“Love you,”

Again she did state
Bringing one waspish palm
That warmed such the coldest cheek
The will to overt openness ceded
To that softness of touch
And the lashes separated by eye
Melded

Moment upon moment stumbled past
Til the novelty of that touch seemed gone
In want’s fast
And to the true sight I returned to regrettably last

I stood alone
A front of the bleach burnt throne
Nary a hint nor trace
That any but I am encased
To this defitting place
Built surround not by those
Whose of me kill’t
But of my own condone.

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Tagged: alive or dead, bitterness, poetry picnic week 20, rethought, solitude