Swansong For A Raven

Forgive the day's, last serenades.
Her skies, they bruise like nordic women.
Deep crimson stains that Death would claim,
his robes of office swim in.

As would I, for his dark eye,
has fixed, a basilisk, a scythe.
On charred remains with shared disdain.
For those I chose to mortify.

Their cries have paralysed,
and the smoke has choked these vistas.
But still I lie, though tears have dried,
on the grave of my Clarissa!

A verse for her whispered to the Earth.
A lover's curse is a see-through coffin,
praises her curves so oft concurred.

Though she was no Snow-white on the night she died.
Her shadower's boon when the moon glazed over,
lipped with blood and secrets pried.

For on and in they spread her wide, that seraph bride.
The Devil's pride shalt soon avenge with swift reprise.

And they would writhe for my dark eye.
Bewitched, was fixed like Mordecai's.
On Esther's reign and in this vein,
I saw their lust still stain her thighs.

Their cries have paralysed,
and the smoke has choked these vistas.
But still I lie, though tears have dried,
on the grave of my Clarissa!

Beneath these trees where the mist enwreathes,
her spirit flees, seeing chains of torches.
A fleeting kiss stirring leaves of poetry.

I was no dark knight, breaking men like ice.
I was like a lycanthrope until the moon glazed over,
lipped with blood and last goodbyes.

Now I dream,
enwrapt in pure clouds of the sweetest oblivion.
Where beauty streams,
freed from the teeth of those beasts that had come.

To tear out her spells in red lettered cells,
wherein even the crown prince of Hell,
come out of his arrogant shell,
would falter to better.

But her face soon dispels and as black feathers fell,
from heaven's smoke, so I woke to insanity.
Her exquisite corpse, found fit for their sport.
Of course, would burn on the morrow with me!

And there on this night, strung up in my sight.
Naked she sways, displayed for their vulgar delight.
I scream through my bars at the stars,
that for these crimes of mine solace me.

I will fear not the flames,
that to passion are tame.
Not nearly the same searing pain.
I pray, as held sway upon losing her.

Nor the mettle of roars,
that will settle like ashes and scores.
As with our ghosts in the fog,
when we both turn no more.