Here Comes the GroomA Poem by AtticusBlack
"The love that lasts the longest is the love that can never be." - S. Maugh.
Twelve perfect, sinister rings from the looming bell tower.
Midnight: I was prompt, impeccable, if slightly heathen.
Sitting in the back of the limitless hearse, in my top hat and tailcoat.
Black, black roses surrounding my masculine embodiment.
The Full Moon, shrouded in fog, is my judge, dominating the heavens
With a beaming grimace, revelling at my imminent arrival.
‘Congratulations, Master Adonis,’ rasped the corpse at the steering wheel.
‘How gracious of you, sir,’ I replied to the skeleton.
The wind took hold of the doors, and cracked them open.
In the distance: a harp playing a wistful melody.
She appeared, sitting under the plum tree, a giant of a woman,
Slender, dressed in a wedding gown, playing the harp with spindly fingers,
Her blood red hair flowing to the crypts beneath her.
After gallantly opening the doors, the wind took hold of my legs
And ripped me from the bed of dead roses, emphatically.
The Moon’s breath tenderly pushed me forward.
The stars were missing tonight, surely hiding from the
Sinful gathering happening in this house for God.
I had been released from my desolate closet in
My Father’s house, to be paraded in front of all.
A screech: I turn. The bride was gone.
In her place, twelve perfect, sinister crows, shrieking.
The corpulent fog began to lift as an organ played the funeral march.
With each chord, I took my next step.
With each note, I took my next breath.
A regular beat of a drum begins, pound, pound, pound.
The wind pushes stronger, my breath quickens with the drum beat.
Ahead of me the church appears, the bell tower coming into view,
While the oppressive mist lifts itself from my surroundings.
An assembly of skeletons claw their way from the earth
And begin to surround me, taking the winds job in pushing me.
The flurry of cold air spirals around the small lanterns
Hanging from the leafless trees.
My Father: white, spectral, wax-like, approaches me.
‘Come on son,
What’s done is done.
Profane thou art,
Not pure of heart.
Now, the consequences thou must face,
Of your queer disgrace,
Follow, the gaiety shall begin,
Once thou hast redeemed thy sin.’
My Father, a phantom, touches my shoulder,
Only for his haggard hand to brush through my body.
It caressed my heart, tickled, as he did when I was young,
The memories flooded back, I remember
When he used to carry me on his capacious shoulders,
Often used to carry much more than just me...
Now, physical contact with me was only to punish,
A man cannot touch a man, but, if he does?
He answers to God, and God punishes, fairly.
We enter the sombre church, filled to the brim however
With silent, spectral figures, similar to my Father.
Candles hovered above their heads, casting no shadows but one: mine.
Blood decorated the walls in a respectable fashion,
The aisle spattered with it too, along with more black roses.
Through the stained-glass window at the front
I can see the Moon again, this time licking its lips with blood-thirst.
For a moment, time ceased.
That’s if time still existed.
At the altar, a man of utmost charm and class,
The most perfect jaw line I had ever seen, or kissed.
Ice blue eyes, cold to the general perceiver,
But to me, so cold they set fire to my desire.
His tailcoat outlined a body of a God,
His skin... pale.
His shadow... absent -
My transparent Father led me up the aisle
To the ever growing funeral march.
Heads that no longer existed turned and watched me with scorn and malice.
I turned; following me were twelve, perfect bridesmaids,
Dressed head to toe in black,
Red hair decorated with twelve, perfect black petals.
I reach my God; he smiles a smile that melts my existence.
I see the red-headed giant playing the organ,
She winks, smiles, and stops playing.
And then it was the Moon that said:
‘Dost thou take thy Adonis to be thy lawful wedded husband?’
And my love said:
‘No... I cannot,
What has happened is full of sin,
And I wish not to be full of sin.’
I begin crying, I taste the tears on my lips,
Blood: I cry blood; twelve perfect blood tears reach my lips.
The red-headed giant advances, smiling as ever.
She lifts my body with her branches,
Turns on her heels and approaches a black coffin.
‘A funeral shall commence, sinful one,
A cremation shall follow, queer one,
Thou must not worry,
For in the afterlife,
Be it in heaven or hell,
Though it’s hell you’re destined for,
The blood thirsty Moon shall look after you.’
Gently, I’m placed into the coffin, full to the brim
With black rose petals.
‘Now, as a warning to you all,
This coffin will be dropped into the fires of hell,
So now, it is time we bid our farewell.’
And then twelve, perfect rings of the bell,
My bell of atonement.
© 2010 AtticusBlack
Shelved in 2 LibrariesAdded on February 9, 2010
Last Updated on February 9, 2010
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