Into the DarkA Poem by RFDIII
Murder and Intrigue
Honed cleaver embeds charred pot-roast, laid deep into the bone,
Of which rests ‘pon distant table, in a long ‘n lofted home.
Tinted glass panes form their arching, whilst stark woodwind chimes ring out,
And if you listened through the thunder you could hear his final shout.
Curtains line the halls, dyed until a darkened crimson.
Candles light the walls, casting shade aghast the grim one.
And a pool of blood lays still, sticky sweet like lemonade,
the trail of which leads out, through imperial colonnade.
The stairs were little effort, leaving falls of blood behind
though the bumping broken skull, beat within eclectic time.
And though the void was ever silent, it seemed as if to me
that the quiescence of the night, formed a tragic symphony.
I drug him to the back and dug him up a shallow grave.
One foot, two foot, three foot, four - Into the dark, my knave.
To think if tempest never came, if clouds never came to pass;
He’d still be gnawing well-done flesh, and now he lays, lambaste.
© 2012 RFDIII
AboutMy body is young, but I am old. I know some things, as I am told. So delve into my cryptic mind; I hope you have a grand ol' time. more..