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Lucy Rises

The grave cannot chill the desire of the undead

I thought they buried you in the snow
Last winter-- but, pray, was that me?
Curious, how I’ve nowhere to go,
But pace the graves at half past three:

Mysterious ‘tis, where goes my mind
These bleary days since I spied you last;
It seems I’m cloistered from my kind,
Lost, amazed, in the winding past.

But look at you! As snowflakes white,
Trellised atop the gravestone’s perch!
How does your trembling lip invite,
Like toll of midnight bells to church

Where no pastor prays, no choirs sing
But the sighs of dying devils ring
In communal cries: O, don’t be dire!
Offer up your breast, and feed my fire!

How burns the blood, in these veins ice-blue,
Pulsing, pounding; what’s Good or True
Past caring be: one touch is gold
When Desire fires, tho flesh be cold!

Our charcoal eyes like diamonds shine;
My mouth is your’s, your soul is mine;
Breathless bodies now intermingle,
Our souls twice damned, our fate be single!

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © Copyright 2011 Princess Celia. All rights reserved.

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