Les Fleurs du Mal

 

Oh, I the wetly weak claw

led by his strong warm paw

walking the forbidden path

through high uncut summer grass

while hunters nose dive

membranes servants to their flight

were buzzing all around our heads

black parasol, balance and shades

 

Those little bells on my fool's cap

all witness to my sad defect

crowning my pale seriousness

in most ridiculous distress

 

The smile on his weather-tanned face

his white teeth somewhat out of place

the gentle roughness of his hands

dark soil staining his fingernails

 

Ushered into the forest's hold

I'm folding up my parasol

heralding fears of deprivation

in answer to my hesitation

he's parting the branches as we move

I dare a smile in shy excuse

Oh does he know the ghosts I drag

the dreadful ending I expect?

The boyish hand of this olden maid

hints secrets, guarded by her face

 

Does your world know my shadow's near,

the loop of time I always fear?

The fact that I carelessly stepped

into my very own, dark trap?

You stride, I'm glancing at your belt...

should I miss ay of the things I never felt?

 

The shaking hand of this olden maid

instead waters the flowers

on her ancient grave.

 [bad word]  [bad word] soporaeternus