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The Murder

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Apr. 22nd, 2008 | 02:09 pm

Perched lonely atop a crippled cliff's peak,
with the green sky shaded by hues of gray
you listen to vicious winds speak
of the softened sun setting across the bay
In the distance, lighthouses oscillating
highlight the shadows with a glistening spark,
you hear the mossy, wet grass debating
whether to plunge you towards the dark
Although it's name you do debauch
the rising moon dares not to watch

With your faith you trust the sea to rapture
your weakened frame with open arms
yet the rocks step forth to make the capture
the monstrous sea unimpressed by your charms
While your husband searches, locked in fright
the dogs will lead with scent still fresh
to your body, succumbed to the stars at night
who ravenously tear at lifeless flesh
Who gorge away to fill their bellies
smearing your organs like precious jellies

Again moss covers another headstone
forgotten by unpredjudiced sands of time
of another lost girl who was left to her own
devices and spoiled well under her prime
Oh how cruel and uncaring the fates may be
isolated by Samael, scarred with iniquity
he smokes a white pipe made of plaster and bone
stuffed with the leaves of souls from antiquity
sadistically enticed by the weak, muffled moan
That comes from the snuffing of passion and grace
leaving a mad grin crossing his face

What are we to do when the sun fails to rise
against the backdrop of thick, blotted clouds
When the lady, high up in the moon, shuts her eyes
and drapes over her face the most sorrowful shrouds?
Are we to wander across wasted continents?
Or leap from cliffs high above a violent, white sea?
Should we become humbled, despite our accomplishments,
in order to avoid this deep misery?
I weep, for in sullen skies surely abide
the hungry stars that forever deride.

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