The Widower's Dance


A dance and song, with laugh of startled glee,
The murmurs drifting out from alcoves closed.
Thus, see the spreading mirth from nook, then flee,
And draw the eyes to trance, like rapture dosed.

The pearled necklace bright, a glass of wine,
That clinks and drowns away the whispers soft,
As we, from far yet centred, knot like twine,
And dance ourselves away in sky aloft.

And see your eyes, and know the sun and moon—
For what could blind a man to world around?
And know the belladonna tincture’s swoon:
To death or maddened love, and nothing bound.

At claps, the lovely echo fades at length,
And steals away the final, promised breath.

The ledge of ridge to river, dark and damp,
At edge on final stone, with algae slick,
In iron-studded boots, without a lamp,
The lonely man thus stands in terror thick.

And hears the howling wolves in hunter's writ—
Despair and death approach in hushing steps,
With rancid smell and sound of drooling drip,
From crimson, slicing smiles as malice swells.

A jump to death or dying rabid stand—
Between the maw or fangs, no choice to spare.
With ice in guts, his footing slips from land
And tumbles into murk, without a care.

With rushing wind in ears, like lover’s sigh,
With eyes to sky, a wish for moon to lie.

The 'Bleak Weald', 'Dusk-Woods', 'Grove of Screeching Wights'—
A land of many names and many routes.
While veiled in gloom and dusk, with looming heights,
It ***** the ashen tears through creeping roots.

The grasping claws of forests, seeking moon,
Would turn around at slightest sound to pierce
The hearts; for those who dare disturb are hewn
And strewn apart for augurs' sights to pierce.

The pilgrim hastens into darkened woods
And stumbles fast through death, awaiting prey.
From satchel worn, returns the stolen goods
To woods betrayed—the moonlight, craved and prayed.

Thus, 'Bleak Weald', 'Dusk-Woods', 'Grove of Screeching Wights'
Became the Twilight Woods of sage and sights.

So, scraped to bone and skinned till raw, I kneel
To stand before the deeds, to finish mine.
By bleeding wounds, a moment more I steal,
To add to seconds, shedding tears of brine.

To spit in face of Time again—once more,
While baring ****** teeth and clenching them—
In pain and dread and hate and........aching sore?
Through hollow veins, I hear the thrum of end.

And close my eyes for not a second's rest,
For shame and fear that I won’t stir again.
So, slog through duty work—my soul a guest.
Do eyes mine dry, and muscles tear in vain?

For hundreds passed, and those to come, like me,
Through seconds—I will claw forever free!

The owls are blabber-beaks that gossip much,
So never tell your secrets, quiet, to one;
For councils far have formed to chatter such,
And wills they leave behind, from son to son.
 
Like shadow tricks—a dark and rippled dance,
Like moonlight, starlight, leaping over walls—
The whispered secrets, far and wide, will prance,
And those who hear the wind will know them all.
 
Like candles drawing eyes from secrets massed,
For light will blind as sure as dark and dusk;
So light a candle, blinding secrets passed,
A pleasure song to deafen truths so brusque.
 
The ways of secrets, revealed thus to one,
Become no hidden secrets—new to none.

The call for show of hands for estate death!
And now we end the path of blood we took.
As skulls became the cobblestones we tread;
In name of drop, how rivers bled from rook.

The crown we broke in two now grins at graves,
As liberty devours her fairest son,
With ******, jagged teeth and smiles of knaves;
Reminds of fight where only blade has won.

So many boars were drained, that spear-head broke,
And monster heads now drop in prayers, quite,
To add the last of drops to rills we woke.
The chains we forged from melted words we smite.

Deceived as wolf and flock by freedom's lock,
There can't be peace between the wolf and flock.

Or call for show of hands for easy breaths?
This way, the kings have fed on us so long.
Our grains of blood were woven into wreaths;
Our silent pain became disdainful song.

Like bed bugs, they have dried and ****** our blood;
A greedy vermin makes no truce with food.
And, pushed in ground—for we are only mud—
So, call for pyres to burn, and fetch the wood.

So, melt the lock, for key is broken, stuck.
The spear must drain the boar, for winter comes.
So, march in lockstep, as we need to pluck
The monster heads for whom this song we hum.

So, call for show of hands for strangled breath.
The call for show of hands for estate death.