The calendar bleeds a strange, dark ink,
Where February’s ice begins to sink
Into the soil of a shallow, October grave.
The saint is dead; the shadows crave
A different kind of crimson on the floor,
Not from a rose, but something... more....
The lace is torn, the silk is stained with soot,
As Cupid stalks on a cloven foot.
Forget the chocolates wrapped in gold....
These boxes house what’s damp and cold.
A heart is gifted, still beating and raw,
Held in the grip of a skeletal claw.
The candlelight flickers a jaundiced hue,
Illuminating lovers who are black and blue.
They dance a waltz in a graveyard mist,
Sealing their vows with a poisoned kiss.
No paper cards, just parchment of skin,
To chronicle every beautiful sin.
So hang the bats from the heart.....shaped wreath.....
Hide the razor beneath the teeth.
In the hollow chest where warmth should stay,
The ghosts of lovers have come to play.
Love is a haunt, a debt, a moan......
A feast of marrow on a bed of bone...☠️
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "