Billowed clouds of reflected dark
obfuscate the murky lake;
The sky, cloaked in purple-blue,
makes the world below an even ebony.
In those black depths lurks
the watery sepulchered grave
of my soul’s love.

She was one of the Forgotten,
hidden away from the world’s inequity
of somber justice,
precise numbers,
and uneven minutiae.

Her garlanded dress of dark water-purple
was the fable of my belief and my
marrow-fat of living;
but in death – her life is larger in me;
I sadly smiled as I cast torn rose petals
upon the waves of her grave.

Yet one day when the world wasn’t looking,
she found her way out of Death’s embrace
and to the white walled horror of my suburbia.

Her shadow traveled in leap frog fashion,
in and out of
slippery pools of fetid pot-hole water
too shallow to hold her
pearl-white soul’s glimmer;
purging her like a child who has
eaten too much–
acid-rain stains could not fathom her.

In the days that followed,
the blank canvas of my
home was painted with:
water caves,
drowned statues,
ebon sarcophagi. From her wet shadows
the death-stopped
mouths of her forgotten kin
were given voice
in ancient whisperings
that leaked into my nightly
revelries with her.

But my pale Hecate did not
last; after endless nights
of aberrant happiness,
the shadows of her presence
evaporated. And in dreams
sublime, I saw here there–
enthroned on her submerged
cliff under the lake,
Wielding her power:

“In death there is life my love,”
her cold white lips did sing with
oceanic appeal.

I awoke to my cold walls,
shivering with hate
for the clock that ticks and
tocks and thus in its implied
abstraction, measures me a measure
that is intended to:
control,
bind,
and rule as my sovereign.

I returned to the lake,
in that midnight hour
to retrace on the moonlit sidewalk
the shadowy imprint of my
love’s tiny feet.

“To me,”
“To me,”
the swishing of the ebon waves sang
as they kissed my ears and
whispered of a midnight
garden bedecked with:
Lilly’s Petal,
Siren’s Bloom,
and Dim Shade
afore a tomb of ebon black.

I cast myself upon the waves,
and thrilled as the chill water
seeped into my ears,
and burnt my nose.
There was no shore but only
the deep in its darkest hue.

The sky now reflects a
darker purple-blue upon the sighing
lake’s shore; beyond the ken
of Fate, smiling in a dark cove
imbued by the
scent of torn rose petals once
cast upon the wave,
I tend the sepulcher
of my twilight wife,
A siren beyond the powers of the Grave.