Andrew David Dalby
I drink her in and then I spit to spout her out... entirely.
I thrust long, deep, with a sigh of plumped rich precision;
But I pace my bleeding aching urges to a gentle glow.
Oh... to sup this real bitter blistered free communion,
And to touch with revelry, her sweat ridden body slow.
For she beckons me from the pitch of this twilight night,
I know she's waiting... yet I dare not dare I, choose to go.
Because. I know the cost of loss and total empty dislocation;
I feel it shudder through my soul to the point of screaming no!
And I hear insane rhyming chords echo the lunacy now within.
So I try not to let them guide my new found hidden instincts.
And as the sublime moonlight drive within me starts to flow;
I reach out with claw-ridden hands, its talons beyond myself…
I twist I turn I turn I tryst I twist I turn I tryst and turn;
To finally throw myself upon this, my new found purpose;
And then lay to rest the beast that lies within... completely.
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Comments about this poem (Wolfsbane by Andrew David Dalby )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
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Sir Walter Scott
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