My Hopeless Heart.

The singing of Skylarks eases nothing,
nor a sunset closing it’s orange eye,
to be smothered in swirls of pearls.
A hanging rose, 
a skeletoned body...
‘Permit me a natural death!’

The grey bones of night...
stay virgin, absent of dew.
A flawless floret, no scalpeled thorn to protect.
My heart once floated on oceans petticoat,
now a cloud bursting with sour raindrops.

Motherly whispers warned me,
Anthea her name,
sculptured by man, now
in emerald encrusted tomb.
Her pendant kept, beneath my pillow of tears...
Where echoes of lust weave through fine feathers.

My virginity given, scarlet-swelled,
rich fruit of pomegranate,
spilled rubied diamonds. 
Sweet cedarwood scent-stained the air.
Bodies entwined, dripped sweat of silver,
becoming one.

No opal moon drifts...
just crackles of broken stars.
I am fading, cannot fight or forward glance
Summer’s next red-headed Rose.
My shadow weaves,
seamlessly departs this spirit.

For without his love,
life will not thrive in secrets beyond.
Saffron Daisies, white feathered discs...
will not spin, spin...spin. 
Beseech... an Angel to smile upon me.

We embroidered our own maze,
fine lovesick stitches, ripped
by loopholes of betrayal.
The eye of this spiral draws near,
beyond fear.

This heavy world suppresses
my melodious threads. 
I pray...within steely walls, 
wrapped in mysteries of love lost.
I gaze at a framed, silhouetted lady...
hanging from a tired old oak,
swords spear her spine.
‘Do you blame her?’
‘Would you not do the same?’  

 
Image courtesy of Rider Waite Tarot Card Pack.