WS George
writer
composer
From Beyond
I heard her speak
with words which proved
her frantic soul
was held against her will.
She crossed the threshold
of her grave and said
such things that left
me mad, as mad as she
had been.
She fluttered above
the gates of Hell
with tulips in her hand,
her ghastly face hid
behind a veil, and sleep,
a sinful sleep was in her eyes.
She loved me well, she loved
me briefly, called me “darling”
and mocked me with her fevered virtue
Perhaps she thinks she is some species
of virgin come to life again;
my own lady Lazarus
still stirs, still does not sleep.
~ Friday, November 21, 2014
- The Demon at my Bedside
- On Contemplating the News of a Friend’s Death
- So Far, So Very Good
- Three Poems for a Friend
- The Death of Princeford
- The Artist and the Builder
- I must have Drunk too much Ambrosial Wine
- Our Brother Fell Back Home
- On Beauty in Music
- Written with Permission later that Evening
- When They Come Asking
- Mary May
- Hello, World
- From Beyond
- Change
