Quietly this friend of mine
Made of shadow and light
With golden hair and flowered eyes
The top hat on the stair
The cane in padded glove sick hands
He smiles at me brightly
He knows exactly who I am
And plans to haunt me nightly
He runs his fingers over my lips
And how I'd love the blood to seep
Like roses spilled on Russian snow
I'm murdered in your keep
I'd like to point a finger, or allay the blame
I'd like to blame him for everything
But I'm twisted with fear and shame
I'm tied and tortured
Life: the business of slow dying
I cannot make you go away
I've been damned for ever trying.
Copyright (c) by M.R. Haden 1998
Reason for writing:
The St. Christopher referred to in Burning Down The Mission, kind of like a companion piece. They're both about the same thing: Insanity.
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by M.R. Haden.