We'Ll Not To Marry
WE'LL NOT TO MARRY
'Twas winning out again, the devil, biting, clear of gin,
this house of Usher had no end in sight,
upstairs, her hair so vibrant, fine and thin,
loosed to her pillow, waiting through the torrid night,
his flesh and very blood, who loved to feel his weight and thighs,
who's made of him the sin, she calls him, now and then,
the truth of it, the pleading from her eyes,
if no one knows, how can our love become a sin?
"We'll not to marry, father dear," she told him from the first,
"Though dead, my mother's heart still beats alive in me,
does not the pill. give us means to stop the worst?
And watch me, now I swallow it, so you can see."
Up through the moonlit hall, his breath contained, deep in his chest,
he made no sound, but heard she every step he took,
and bared she all her mother's heart and breast,
to welcome him to come and read her opened book.
"We'll not to marry, father dear," she told him one more time,
so he could do the very best in pleasing her,
and in the joy of night, forgotten was the crime,
as madness claimed the both of them, right where they were.
© Ron Wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet Vee Bdosa
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