Brides Of The Thorn

Any love can sting.

In shadowed halls where moonlight weeps,
And velvet drapes the widow’s keep,
I met her she of raven's grace,
With poison petals on her face.
Her lips were wine, her voice a dirge,
Each touch a sin, each breath a scourge.
She carved her vows in crimson script,
And from my throat the roses dripped.

I loved her still, in wicked bloom,
Though every kiss became a tomb.
She smiled—O God, that serpent smile
And led me down the steps of guile.
Her eyes held storms, her sighs held chains,
And I, the fool, adored my pains.
But tempests break and candles die,
And so I fled her lullaby.

Lost in forests veiled in mist and moan,
I found a heart as soft as stone
No cruelness here, no siren's scream,
But gentleness, as in a dream.
Her love was light, her hands were warm,
No blade beneath her woven charm.
She healed the cracks that once bled flame,
And whispered low my shattered name.

Yet years dissolve the sweetest glass;
The bloom may rot, the vows may pass.
The voice that once gave life to me
Grew silent as a winter tree.
She vanished not with rage or fire,
But colder still, like saints expire.
Now where she stood, it scalds the air,
And I am lost without her stare.

So here I stand, with thorns for rings,
A broken man of hollow kings.
One love was cruel, yet burned so bright
The other pure, then bled to blight.
If this be fate, then carve the rune.
All roses ache beneath the moon.