A Poem by La Belle Dame Sans Merci

These clipped nails always grow back,
insulting my efforts to refine the feral self,
the monster lying crouched in my valves
like Grendel in his cave, emerging when nobody wanted it out.

It downed the bottle and capsules thrice
but resilience purged it as a toxic fountain,
organ music throbbing in my ears,
and a hollow voice laughing, laughing, laughing.

It croons to the night, most joyful when not a star is in sight,
yearning for dangerous heights and a rocky abyss,
sharp blades, nooses, guns, fire and ice.
It'll not think twice about vengeance out of spite.

The lady dons her gloves, combs her hair, smiles appropriately,
meets her lover and kisses him most affectionately.
She walks under the lamplights, coddles all the babes,
dons her apron before the stove, sings, skipping down the lanes.

Even she must deal with her nakedness
before washing away the stains.

© 2011 La Belle Dame Sans Merci

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Added on October 20, 2011
Last Updated on October 20, 2011


La Belle Dame Sans Merci
La Belle Dame Sans Merci


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