Monday, July 28, 2014

SUITE OF TEARS

SUITE OF TEARS

Enter, my lover fair, into my suite of tears.
Linger not with hesitation on the threshold.
Taste with me the bitter bile of wasted years,
Let my rooms of saline welcome you into their fold.

I am the proprietor of this house of ill repute,
Whose halls are filled with skeletons
With tongues carved out and mute.
I am the cursed curator of this house of fallen cards,
Whose antique lamps where armies camp,
Lie in broken shards.

Enter, my loving friends, into this room of gloom,
Where the witches scratch their itches,
And apply their foul perfume.
Come with entrance fee in hand,
Pay the high inflated cost,
For space is at a premium,
And he who hesitates is lost.
I am hellbent on collecting rent,
So come and grease my bloodstained hands,
While I sit all bent and broken,
Like rusted contraband.

And fill up my well with tears of your own,
For we are all one in our sorrow.
Enter into my suite of tears,
Give no thought for the morrow.
I am the caretaker of this most divine display,
So let its awful ugliness carry you away.
And though there is a bird bath,
Standing tall in the knee high grass,
It will never wash away your wounds,
Or change how the die is cast.

Enter my lover fair, into my wondrous, pitch dark bower,
For the summer night is dark and damp,
And now is the witching hour.
Bring into my suite of tears,
A vase with the blackest flowers.
Sing to me a silent dirge from days that have grown cold,
And let my rooms of saline welcome you into their fold.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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