Candle in the Attic Window Part 8

the dust of Morpheus mists your vision

while Poe and Wilde linger at the tomb

discuss portraits and Annabelle Lee

You will descend, my dear

steps from reality to mad cacophony

hidden laughter chimes its manic bell

your perfected self is heedless

until spectral hands chill your face

a sibilance of whispers writhe and burrow

hook their glinting cause within, though you are the apple

from which that worm has crawled

your bosom white as casket lilies shudders, yet

you cannot, will not pull free of darkling touch

the canvas more garish as you work, daub in

Venus's flytrap, the nightshade bloom, narcissus

at its center, the inferno melts your brain and heart

Try to turn away, my dear

Elysian fields hold no mystery once you've tramped eternal blooms

you pollinate your dreamworlds with blood dust

cradled in blossoms soft as funeral silk

bony fingers that snare your imagination, then your arm

are mutilated, corrupt and it is paper that you feel

not parchment flesh that scratches

you seek a demon lover through lifetimes

black-lace parties, angst-filled wine and candlelight

rotting breath and broken, blackened teeth chew

greedily your neck, your heart wants more

selfish hunger you taste false remorse

one-time friends and lovers have turned to morsels

Do not believe it all, my dear

Gypsies caged by flame and shadow

pa.s.s bottles more than ancient secrets,

down warmth not found in guarded eyes

smoke sour tobacco, torture tamed wood until it screams