Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Chronicles of Lady Death - Countess Of Death

"Why should I fear death?
If I am, then death is not. If Death is, then I am not.
Why should I fear that which can only exist when I do not?..." - Epicurus

Youth, the fountain of joy, yet thee evade my grasp,
Youth, the lust of freedom, born out of a divine lie.

The blood of the un-bled, I hope is my cure,
As I lay, parched from within, yet wet to my core,
Crimson stains, they refuse to wash off.

Youth, the forbidden truth, suckling on death.
Youth, Edith's worry, a mystical piece of jewel.

Here I grow old, time my foe, it grows, it wriggles, 
Scarred by time, I wrinkle, shrivel, yet 
Thee oh my love, I bathe in, as I inch closer to death

Youth, the unquenchable thirst, hope of death,
Youth, thou the lavish fantasy of men.

I have bathed a million times, yet time wins,
Time my foe, since I first knew love,
You will wither, he said, a kiss his farewell.

Youth, the unfound treasure, I yern for thee,
Youth, behold your mistress, make me yours.

They stand at my gate, a hundred deaths upon me,
They stand to judge, I wash my hands in blood,
I am yours, Oh fable of the victorious.

I am yours my love, and in death we shall be one.

Elizabeth Báthory

Saturday, January 6, 2018

Night Train to Velli

Amid the tight glances, I stood,
Steadfast, a word less searched for,
By the foot hold of the last wagon,
Of the Queen as she chugged through.

Black clouds rose in the night sky,
Moon and stars blanketed by her gurgling smog,
Each cloud a plumage of the night bird, fluffy coal candies.

The ride was long, I was told,
I ignored, rather enjoyed the rumble,
The tics and taks on the metal rail,
As the wheels echoed on, into the darkness.

An amber shone bright in the distance,
And the Queen started the long screech,
Pungent whiff of her diesel fog,  her engines coma-ed.

My fears grew roots, As the queen halted,
The amber turned to red, gale birthed a gentle breeze,
The smell of screeching metal fumed the night air,
The Queen had stoped her righteous stride.

I alighted the royal gait, stepping into the cold sand,
The red turned to green, but miles away was I,
My legs, my chariots, fear my fuel.

The Queen started her slow chug, the royal march,
The faint echo of her wail, annoyance it did speak,
I heard her slow rumble, as she regained her posture,
But miles away I was from her, moon my witness.

My captors turned red in her bosom, as she chugged,
Their sleep played the Judas in the grand scheme,
I felt the cold sand beneath my feet, freedom I guess.

I do feel pity for the gallows waiting for me,
The lonely little hoops, but what is mercy to me,
As I ran to the freedom, and the Queen conquered new shores.