Femme Fatale

Femme Fatale By A Wishing Well (In The Wastelands Of War) Warm as breath on placid skin, Soft as gentle summer rains, Loud as natures angry clouds That gather in ambushed lanes, To confer with the wounded boys Whose blood on artillery stains, Etched with the faded epitaphs Tattooed on her mortal remains. Drop a pebble In a wishing well, If it splashes Kiss and tell, Touch the ripples Of those who fell Into the depths That lead to hell. Bright as a second harvest moon, Hostile as the reapers command, Silent as a wispy, mournful soul Who wept upon a troubled land, To kneel beside the enemies gun Where heroic men should stand, Saluting to the pipes and drums Crushed in her seductive hand. Shine a penny Make a wish, Reach inside The waters swish, With fickle hearts And silver fish That nibble souls In the dark abyss. Parched as a crimson sunset Dark as burnt as ashen oak, Lost as a wayward albatross Who rode upon plumes of smoke, To soar above the battlegrounds Where fearless soldiers choke, Thirsting for the tears of grief Her odes to conflict will evoke. Swim in pools Of fatal love, Where broken hearts Have seen enough, Where one embrace Can lead to a shove, To silently drown In the sky above. Sleepless as the lifeless limbs Tormented on a captive throne, Homeless as a wartime refugee Who wanders the ruins alone, To rummage through the corpses Where kings have turned to stone, Beside the statues of our heroes Carved from her flesh and bone. Drift with angels Who sing so loud Their choral dirge For the baying crowd, Who in their victory Stand so proud, Casting rainbows Just to catch a cloud. Black as a pond of liquid pitch, Laying still as a stagnant mire, Dead as a feild of burning poppies That perished in the crossfire, Where rows of scarlet bouquets Hang limply on the twisted wire, Woven into the crimson tunics For her lustful eyes to admire. Blackest billows Full of dread, Ride the wind That blows ahead, Then go to sleep On a feather bed, Under the wings Of the angels that fled. Calm as a sultry midnight sky Barren as the frozen sea, Nervous as autumnal leaves Clinging hopelessly to a tree, To fall as mighty nations fall Precariously existing as free, Devoid of any reasonable doubt, Only agreeing to disagree. Then ravens flock In stormy skies, To peck her heart And kiss her eyes, To see a prophet Old and wise, Who tell of soldiers With tearful eyes. Ruthless as a spiders web Perfumed with an orchids tear, Reliant on the seasons end To harvest the fruits of fear, The ravages of war smell sweet As friends and lovers appear, Between the haunted vestibules With the ghosts of yesteryear. Look to the east, Look to the west, The archers arrows Will pierce her chest, All her dreams Were laid to rest Behind the ravens Empty nest. Worshiped as non-specifics Revered as an unknown thing, Insidious as the fallen angel Who sewed on her broken wing, To fly between the gravestones Just to lure the spirits to sing, The hymns of desperate faiths To which her heart will cling. Lunge her sword With a victory cry, Who will love her If all should die? Make a wish, Say goodbye, Men will fall From the empty sky. Mysterious as a femme fatale, Innocent as her poetic ink, Destructive as her fickle rhymes That tempt men to further think, About those glorious victories Which left humanity on the brink, Drawn toward the bloody abyss Where she, without pity, will drink. Cups her ear, There's a tolling bell Echoing softly Where spirits dwell, Comedy, tragedy And a magic spell, Are all just pebbles In a wishing well. Relentless as the wrath of time, Enchanting, distorting eternity, Perfect as the elusive metaphors Which are too beautiful for me, Like the conscientious objector Who will sing "what will be will be". To her infant and our ancestors Dying on her bloodstained knee. Recite to them your poem Still, so much to tell, Words on pebbles Like soldiers fell, Femme fatale What price is hell? I tossed my last penny Into your wishing well...... .......Plop!...... ....... ... .. . © RJVHorton2013