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BLOOD LUST - (a dark Sestina)
Author: Mistress Claire Marie De La Grange
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BLOOD LUST - (a dark
Sestina)
My night is thy day, sunless vertigo
thick with groaning apathy
infinite irony
ancient anathema
pounding in a heartless pulse
bred without birth or tears for severed feeder
yet my rue is that of the feeder
drawn into depths of crimson vertigo
I feel the hunger as a relentless pulse
beating-beating-beating in cold apathy
screaming its anathema
amongst gnashing irony
so superbly sweet this bitter irony
it feeds the lust but not the feeder
an inbred anathema
a taunting heartbeat vertigo
a gnawing apathy
that can't be found by fingers touch upon an empty pulse
but thy pale and fluttering pulse
regrets such dark regard and irony
perhaps thy touch defies my apathy
and stills the drum that calls the feeder
and calms the maelstrom's crimson vertigo
lessening the innate hunger of my anathema
else this godless anathema
bleed too many to still pulse
and their blood swirl its vertigo
abating thy perfume with lusts irony
and I again suckle as the feeder
on the breast of apathy
such is the dark and delicate soul of forlorn apathy
feeding - bleeding - feeder
resurrecting - infecting - anathema
until the beating - beating - beating pulse
is no longer irony
but a blacken hole inside souls vertigo
vertigo - swirling - pulling life into my dark and dreary anathema
ignoring earthly apathy masked by heart and sweeten pulse
as my night is thy irony, thy love is but blood lust for the feeder
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Desperate Craving
Author: Mistress Claire Marie De La Grange
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Desperate Craving
Devour me sweet eternal night and end this resignation
graze upon my mortality and still its blatant malediction
transfuse thy sinister obsession
scream out my eulogy in wanton palpitations
embed thy inherent intensity into my craving
lick my lips thick with crimson appetite
for this life abates without remorse or appetite
what pulse remains beats with stubborn resignation
quickly - as my panic is my craving
end this mortal malediction
feed me with a thousand palpitations
stab me with thy tribute and obsession
t's thee that is my breath and true obsession
thy dark and endless appetite
never quenched with aeons palpitations
never held fast in guilt or resignation
as you suckle on the breast of malediction
giving unearned rest to quite desperate craving
prayer nor somber chants save not this craving
or a Sun that finds the Moon its obsession
for its contradiction breeds its malediction
and feeds upon itself with envies appetite
spending dawn to twilight's edge in sunlit resignation
without racing pulse or palpitation
I beg thee - set thy lips upon my neck and mortal palpitation
its melody a Siren's song sung as dark and distant craving
beyond the fear of mortality or resignation
feed upon my last and dear obsession
drink with lustful appetite
as I pour the wine of malediction
Hear the last beat-beat-beatings of malediction
hear the drumming halt its deafening mortal palpitation
as the last crimson drop fills your appetite
and stills this endless craving
abating my long and last obsession
without regard or resignation
for resignation cannot be heard above this immortal palpitation
that beats beyond the malediction of my craving
beyond the fast of my obsession now cast wet with appetite
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THE SECRET
Author: Mistress Claire Marie De La Grange
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THE SECRET
I never knew the secret,
the whole truth had never been told,
only fables and myths; religious glyphs,
regarding the flesh, and the soul;
As a Lemming rushes to follow,
disregarding the edge, of the cliff,
I like so many others,
lived a life unconcerned about this;
For in youth the cost of living
is more the price of a dress,
and the chance to be asked to a Saturday dance
where you can flaunt you're evening best;
Matters of mortality,
or the course, of the soul after death,
were issues, of the old and feeble,
or the priest at his Sunday address;
Frivolous at it may seem,
such naive beliefs were my vanity fare,
and I spent my youth rather aloof,
without a heavenly care;
Then one summers eve,
in the mist of this bliss,
while watching a fire-fly soiree,
a shadow appeared, on the garden's path
that stole my breath away;
His stature was that of a lean man,
tall, with Raven-wing hair;
his skin the color of moonlight;
his eyes I could never compare;
For once their gaze looked upon me,
I was consumed by their mesmeric charm,
and fell without fright, into their liquid night
as any woman, into her lover's arms;
I could feel his lips pressed against me,
cold-fire embraced my skin;
his arms were wrapped about me,
like a cloak of winter's wind;
His voice was but a whisper,
more thought than words expressed,
as he unveiled the ancient secrets,
of the soul and the flesh;
Somehow I knew his words were true,
ancient and descret,
offering a beguiling choice,
from which one could not retreat
- to die in the flesh
- or live in the soul
till time, and eternity meet;
Yet it wasn't immortality,
or the allure, of an eternal young age,
that bade me give myself to him,
rather the passion and lust he engaged
- simply put
- simply said
its was my heart not my blood that he bled;
Amused I sometimes succumb to reverie,
and without becoming to silly or profound,
wonder, if I was first smitten then bitten,
or if it was the other way around;
And the dark is so much sweeter now,
revealed by kindred sight,
as my love, and I, dance with the fire-flies,
to the rhythms, of an endless night.
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