deepundergroundpoetry.com

- - - THE ZENITH OF HER PHOENIX - - -

A serpent tongue, split in twain
Slips venom into my ear
The fairest king, the mark of Cain
Awash on a trail of tears

She splintered my coffin with gentle hands
In a crypt designed elegant and grand
But left too soon inside the gloom
Besieged by doom reserved just for the damned

The burning scar, once a kiss
Like a branding on my cheek
Black candles burn within the mist
Circles thy enemy seat

She speaks my name
In the same breath
With carrion things
That feed on death
And the insane
The only thing left
Is to speak my name

When darkness reigns, the morning's bane
The sun fails to reach its zenith
Against the grain, the winter vein
We rise again like a phoenix

In death with you
Behold the jealous creator
Blasphemers and poetic drivel
Sing the hymns if vile invaders
Reborn again
Behold the lust of grey satyrs
Beckoning our own reckoning
At the hands of vile crusaders

A burial shroud drapes these tired bones
Risen from my slumber by ancient tomes
In throes of hate, burning the page
Voices the grave, forever redefined

Frosted in death, spider-webbed
Her pale skin graces my flesh
The fairest queen, touch of the dead
I've longed for life's caress

My husk, a carcass becoming legion
When her name bonds within my dark abyss
Rivers of blood swirl in the mud
Before her God, she exists for my kiss

Writhe in silk sheets
And sip from wine
From my defeat
The end of time
Throes of raw heat
Unforgiving crimes
She suckles
Ever so sweetly
From the devil's meat

When darkness reigns, the morning's bane
The sun fails to reach its zenith
Against the grain, the winter vein
We rise again like a phoenix

In death with you
Behold the jealous creator
Blasphemers and poetic drivel
Sing the hymns if vile invaders
Reborn again
Behold the lust of grey satyrs
Beckoning our own reckoning
At the hands of vile crusaders

(c) 2015 Frank Green