The Round Tower . Piraneski, Giovanni |
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Dementia Lies...
The blossoms whip by sweating naked knees that carry fainted perfume from the past. A tainted time that hangs on stagnant breeze. The damage haunts the mountain's meadow-vast, where larkspur trolls and nymphs in stems abide. They cackle, chant out loud from deep inside. These eerie echoes trace her breathy air, and tangle evil thoughts 'round auburn hair, take root and plant a torrid horrid spell. She sprints as though she's tranced and unaware; dementia lies between the Gates and Hell. Delphinium crave height of knowing trees and growth through opaque clouds, all unsurpassed. So willows bend with fluid weeping ease to meet hypnotic voices and to cast the shadows for the nymphs and elves to hide from yawning biting sunlight spreading wide, avoid the godly eyeball's watchful glare. They lure her into Satan's lustful lair where secret tales he writes for her to tell while men take turns with shapely figure, fair. Dementia, lies between the Gates and Hell. A life of whorish schemes, a destined tease for drifters, lepers, freaks and all outcasts. No more the white-knight men will she appease or choose from crowds of heroes born steadfast. A quickened pace, a race with widened stride she tries to find the place where lovers cried instead she hears the heckling trolls compare her past to present life, less debonair. She rips her sexy clothes, expels a yell. The shrieking stilled the wind, and stole her stare, dementia, lies, between the Gates and Hell. A man, defaced, who lives with flesh disease the son of noble blood leaves all, aghast. His fate, his death, the town's hypothesis, a proven false. This exile's home is wast, his mind still kind, he wears the face of pride. He sees her on the ledge, the jagged mountainside afraid of taunts that say she'll take the dare, leap to her death, have no more pain to bare. His presence holds her eyes, and makes them well- He quickly moves below, no time to spare, dementia lies between the Gates and Hell. She falls to him, his skin she never sees. He's taken by her beauty, love at last. He prays she's loyal, one who never flees from fear of diff'rence -- such a strong contrast. With awestruck heart he longs her as his bride but only after larkspur trolls have died as well as nymphs and elves that linger there inside her head. Her mind, he will not share with demon wrath that tries to smother, quell repentance. Countenance alive in her will scare dementia, lies, between the Gates and Hell. The kiss that lead to cure revived the heir. From throne was heard announcing trumpet's blare. They married to the tolling of the bell. The curse reversed -- a royal life they'll share. Dementia lies between the Gates and Hell. ©2000 Peggy Putnam Owen |