Bamborough Castle

my granite face with deeply creviced grief sees dungeons buried beyond naked eyes; to traitor's gate where victims sought relief yet spiked as trophies for all to despise. The artist Turner was by me inspired to compose a wild romantic seascape with crimson skies like a hot furnace fired in a tempest where no ships could escape. But squat ramparts have such turmoil weathered from civil war to foreign invasion. I've marshalled troops to remain unfettered as my canons speak its true persuasion. Over the years, I've swallowed human waste and grown sardonic when I grimly leer. Tonight my walls yet wail, its gloom defaced by luminous tones as candles appear. The stars then prod with sparks the blackened night, the ochre flames are halos, lighting my skin like tattoed tiger-stripes of moths in flight. Each tongue a slit of light, amber within. Ten thousand flames, ephemeral and brief, are ashen clouds like autumn's brittle leaf my granite face with deeply creviced grief sees dungeons buried beyond naked eyes; Over the years, I've swallowed human waste and grown sardonic when I grimly leer. Tonight my walls yet wail, its gloom defaced by luminous tones as candles appear. The stars then prod with sparks the blackened night, the ochre flames are halos, lighting my skin like tattoed tiger-stripes of moths in flight. Each tongue a slit of light, amber within. Ten thousand flames, ephemeral and brief, are ashen clouds like autumn's brittle leaf