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Array ( [sid] => 186429 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => The Exchange [time] => 2019-07-24 20:34:58 [hometext] => Co-written by Jaye and Rich [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 sank her ghastly remains.
Magic so black 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.
Brings young men to court her; who would be her slaves;
In tafetta gowns in the cloak of the grave.

Jaye and Rich
2019 [comments] => 4 [counter] => 177 [topic] => 13 [informant] => ingeniusidiot [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )

The Exchange

Contributed by ingeniusidiot on Wednesday, 24th July 2019 @ 08:34:58 PM in AEST
Topic: DarkPoetry

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 sank her ghastly remains.
Magic so black 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.
Brings young men to court her; who would be her slaves;
In tafetta gowns in the cloak of the grave.

Jaye and Rich
2019

Copyright Â© ingeniusidiot ... [ 2019-07-24 20:34:58]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: The Exchange (User Rating: 1 )
by JamesStockdale on Tuesday, 30th July 2019 @ 02:20:51 PM AEST
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Awesome write. It could be listed as a "poem that tells a story" A magical flow!

Re: The Exchange (User Rating: 1 )
by redwest802 on Tuesday, 6th August 2019 @ 01:34:25 AM AEST
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Awesome

Re: The Exchange (User Rating: 1 )
by reprobate on Sunday, 18th August 2019 @ 10:49:02 PM AEST
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I could see this turn into a movie very easily.
Excellent write!
Thanks for sharing!!!

Re: The Exchange (User Rating: 1 )
by Invierno on Monday, 26th September 2022 @ 08:48:16 PM AEST
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Whoa, Poe! Richard, (pronounced by me as /'/Reekard/'/, it is one of the few guttural Germanic translations I go with...stemming from Richard Strauss). Digressing like mad. I/'/m sorry. It/'/s two hours ere the sun peeps over the lip of the plane).

Took me to Poe right away. (A compliment, in extremis). Your words have painted a room I can almost smell in its age and somberness. The English employment (how did you pull THAT off?..heheh), of phrase and word transported me, then lifted me into that nether realm of wispy ghosts.

And how the picture, then ghost, lures men by the sin of lust into her ghastly, ghostly arms, is reminiscent of the song of the Sirens of Greek mythos.

Very much enjoyed this, Richard. You may find a similar tale (in the same vein) within the very first poem I posted here, last page (17, I think), and the first poem. Back in 2013, 14 or whatever. Title- The Revenge of The Lord of Olney Moor. (Olney is the town I live in). I/'/m so pleased that Poe lives in a few of us. Mos/'/ Def in you, my friend.

Well done,

Invierno

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