How could this happen?
Love is a Harlequin's ruse.
An unhealing wound, blood drips—
Dying words rest on ruby lips—
The blade against the skin, the pain their muse.
Where am I?
Upon my head they place a crooked crown.
Air hushed, choking, still—
I feel them; shadows kill—
The blade against the skin, paints me a permanent frown.
What have you done?
My new friends, they do conspire.
Whisper fanciful fancies and advice—
They have destroyed me thrice—
The blade against the skin, writes a soul’s desire.
Who are you?
Dressed in filigree of silver and ebony.
Death kisses the air—
I wear His mask to the fair—
The blade against the skin, I join the revelry.
Am I safe now?
Line Count: 21
Initially Submitted to: Dark Dreamscapes Poetry Prompt: Picture prompt