The Witch's Cotillion

"And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties" - The Velvet Underground

The walls are flickering again,
as candles make that evil womb.
The simple room
is like a whore's boudoir in Hell,
a rack of bottles here and there,
liquids and creams and bits of hair
pulled out in Love's grooming.

A wretched parchment skin
is washed and teased and cosseted
with purest liquid rouge.
The donator is discarded.
'Its bones will make a lovely stew'
her lone companion sings,
a voice to warm the injured shrew.

But now her skin is pulling taut
and softening to girlish grace.
Her withered face
becomes a pinkish eiderdown.
The rouge around her lips
is plumping up and reddening.

As if malfeasance never crossed
her innocent imaginings,
she wanders through the door
between two fallen trees...
and in the greyish light she sees
a settlement's ejected fumes.