Sweet Mary O. Nette, I see the dawn approaching.
Sweet Mary O. Nette, I see the dawn approaching. poem stories
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rancelandstrong
rancelandstrongOf course I like my own things.
Autoplay OFF  •  7 months ago
Very long, for a poem contest i never entered. The prompt was " And when the sun rises..."

Sweet Mary O. Nette, I see the dawn approaching.

by rancelandstrong

And when the sun rises, I see your rotting frame silhouetted against the brilliance. Strung with love, the cords dance as you do.

An artificial angle, the very tips of your toes grace the undeserving floor in dance.

Your muffled singing dances upon my ears, tingling down my spine and sends a jolt through my heart, my breath catching in my throat as my heart races.

I squirm. How exciting. My love, I see your thin form, black bloodless hands and bruised joints. The ghostly pallor of your skin and the redness of your eyes weaken my heart and set me ablaze.

Doves flutter in my belly as they do from the rafters when you drop. My doll, I caress your face. If not for the cloth, I swore you were smiling at me. Your crumpled wrists are taken into my hand

You writhe so much less nowadays. Tenderly, I place your hands down and lift you up. My bride. I carry her to her throne, the vanity chair I made just for her.

I set her down, she never moves anymore.

I see her eyes, sometimes they look into mine. I have this inescapable feeling that truly, we are destined to be together. I smile. I always stare at her.

At first she was uncomfortable with my praising gaze,

but now she sits surely, reveling. The maggots that fester in her eyes, the tattered satin skirt she loved covers bones that were youthful legs, now all stiff and cold.

She speaks no more to me nowadays.

As I lay beside her, I inhale her scent again and run my fingers though squelching knots that were once struggling tresses.

I don't tell her she's picked up a rather unfavorable smell,

Nowhere close to the divine sweat she once gave off. Nor do I mention her broken body isn't as beautiful as it once was, because to me, she is still perfect. She is Cleopatra, intoxicating,

She is Eve, sin and innocence, Mesperyian, undying beauty and pain. Her open wounds leak, the fragrance of such makes me lightheaded. She sleeps soundly in my arms, hardly breathing anymore.

Her outside beauty was never a match for the inside, as it comes out.

Yes, as the sun rises, my hopes do too.

With it, she also rises by strings strung with care, to the music she sings. And she dances with rotten joints and tattered flesh, all the while singing to heaven, " God help us."

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