My Venus Died

I. The night hangs heavy in this room. Only dead-folk live here now, Except me: my eye-fires burn - Angers, regrets, remorses turn Lazy circles, dancing silent In bodies of these dead-folk They have stolen. What right have they? I – I bid them go; they stay. II. There’s nothing for it, nothing for This illness – no nostrum, potion, nor salve, Magic nor science – all in vain. Shall anything heal this heart-made blain? Yet who is ill? Not I – it’s them! These dancing bodies – no part of me. Not even mine. “I divorce thee! - Ah, ah, it’s no use – impotent fury. Am I mad? A moonbeam splashes Across the sill, vaguely lighting My room, in which I am alone. III. ‘Tis the curse of the godless age: My Venus lies dead, impaled On my floor, washed in moon-light. The dead-folk speared her, then took flight. We shared the moon-lit solitude, My dead Venus and I, her wound Yet fresh and bleeding. The silver spear Pierced her heart. I draw her near. Night-terrors must I face again. Alone now. Alas – how?