The Keeper

If not maiden intended,

maiden in waiting.

Word to the Matriarch,

my return at dark.

I send my man for her things.

 

The disjointed spite the Bedlamite.

I covet the cover of clouds.

Talk of mad seasons,

the ides of which to fear.

As to my letters,

commonality in my ken.

Her words do what they should.

I suicide..

 

Morphine dreams little women.

There is wine and dress 

cast about as light material.

Cards and dice until 

the adrenaline dies down.

What cleave to us fall down.

Her exhalation sanguine.

Wind filter cool to the skin.

A beast reverence and disgust.

It is a scene, apt pupil.

Come from it benign until it don’t.

 

The cuckold give her direction.

The stink of ambition 

the sculpted.

The narrows for the 

damnable consumption. GL ©