"The foreign harlot of blades" by Kathleen Morgaine Haubrich

Her hair would lock about my finger –

In sure pleasure that would linger

-         There, below her neck

Lest he who she betrayed,

With crown of thorns deranged

Severed her hair from its sweetest grasp

Though my restraint still clings like an army of feathered demons whose claws forced through my lips, forcing me to remain silent.

We stood somber in the crowd,

That cruel device and I

Condemn my love to still the beating of her heart

My cloak cast its shadow on the square,

Upon the cruel fiends empty stare

-         Her shoulders torn then, from her hair,

-         warm blood that mingled with the air.

A gaze was frozen on her face,

Her soul departed from my pace,

My limbs not void of error, so stunned my eyes, wrought in terror.

I loft my sword above my sheath,

and raise my hilt to all who paint

their pious wound upon my sinless siren

who left her then ,without restraint

My labor wanes,

my blade strikes wise,

The rain beat knives upon my eyes –

My death dance fails as passion dies.

Their scythe but cleans my frenzied lips,

As bloodless scars are formed and ripped –

My hands are bound and led along

As Camlann stained her finest spawn, upon my lovers grave –

-         The scimitar shivered, wistful and lissome. Blood fell like a weeping devil mourning her last sacrifice –

-         Sharp teeth let loose its grasp upon it’s keenest curse – Her hair still locked about his stolen verse.  -