Array ( [sid] => 186913 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Reincarnate [time] => 2020-04-08 06:12:12 [hometext] => [bodytext] =>
The bedroom fell silent and cold as he slept.
The pendulum stopped. Time went unkept.
Drunk in his slumber, with nothing to dread.
Watched by the photos alongside his bed.
A victorian nightstand held his lost lass,
frozen in sepia, pressed under glass.
Framed in white silver, tarnished to black.
The house bowed its’ head and her image looked back.

Shrouded by curtains that blackened all sound.
Cradled by feathers so deep he could drown.
The candles went out, the shadows approached.
And out of the glass came the breath of her ghost.
Unable to move, unable to scream,
under the covers and into his dream.
A kiss of enchantment, a talisman’s chain,
into his soul his life essence to claim.
Magic so evil the house held its’ breath,
trembling while life lost its battle with death.
Casting his image into her past;
into the picture frame. Under the glass!

The mistress is known through the village by all.
Her parties are legend, and so are her walls.
Bare to the bone that she may walk by;
And pass not a mirror. (for mirrors can’t lie).
Her beauty’s illusion; whose price has been paid.
By the young men who court her, remaining enslaved.
Entombed on her mantle in old silver frames.

T’was terror that birthed her, and that’s what she brings.
Watching, unnoticed, she stands in the wings.
Searching the dancers to keep one around,
her restless tail twitching beneath her silk gown.


[comments] => 3 [counter] => 118 [topic] => 40 [informant] => softerware [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => fantasy ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Reincarnate


Reincarnate
Date: Wednesday, 8th April 2020 @ 06:12:12 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: softerware

The bedroom fell silent and cold as he slept.
The pendulum stopped. Time went unkept.
Drunk in his slumber, with nothing to dread.
Watched by the photos alongside his bed.
A victorian nightstand held his lost lass,
frozen in sepia, pressed under glass.
Framed in white silver, tarnished to black.
The house bowed its’ head and her image looked back.

Shrouded by curtains that blackened all sound.
Cradled by feathers so deep he could drown.
The candles went out, the shadows approached.
And out of the glass came the breath of her ghost.
Unable to move, unable to scream,
under the covers and into his dream.
A kiss of enchantment, a talisman’s chain,
into his soul his life essence to claim.
Magic so evil the house held its’ breath,
trembling while life lost its battle with death.
Casting his image into her past;
into the picture frame. Under the glass!

The mistress is known through the village by all.
Her parties are legend, and so are her walls.
Bare to the bone that she may walk by;
And pass not a mirror. (for mirrors can’t lie).
Her beauty’s illusion; whose price has been paid.
By the young men who court her, remaining enslaved.
Entombed on her mantle in old silver frames.

T’was terror that birthed her, and that’s what she brings.
Watching, unnoticed, she stands in the wings.
Searching the dancers to keep one around,
her restless tail twitching beneath her silk gown.




This poem is Copyright © softerware


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