Her lips were wine, her breath…grave,
Her laughter, dirges, dark and brave.
Oh, Musette!…thy name, a knife,
That carves my ribs and drinks my life.
The tarn reflects no face but hers,
A wraith in black, the night confers.
Her fingers brush the rotting lace,
And stir the dust in my hollow face.
She comes when stars forget to weep,
When shadows coil and secrets creep.
Her voice…sigh, a serpent’s hiss,
A phantom waltz, a lover’s kiss.
They say the dead should stay below,
But Death himself could never know…
How sweetly madness grips the mind,
When love is lost, yet stays enshrined.
So let the candles gutter low,
Let ivy choke the halls I know.
For I am hers, and hers alone,
A ghostly heart…a bloodless throne.
