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November Choles Poem
For he who has not folded in his arms
A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms,
Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent,
When Horror comes the way that Beauty went.
O irresistible, with flesh less face,
Say to these dancers in their dazzled race:
“Proud lovers with the paint above your bones,
Ye shall taste death, musk scented skeletons!
Withered dandies with plump faces,
Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces,
Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath,
Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death.
all we know are the shards of time
slipping from our minds
standing on the edge,it fades like sand between withered hands
we bleed our youth
we will hear,when their hearts stop beating
she flutters like a brazen butterfly,the ink of our veins seep
flowing like the ocean,within her lies
my dear, to the moon and nether ties
the suicide red skyline
resides in her black eyes
Copyright © November Choles | Year Posted 2018
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