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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

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