With the words softly strung across the Bathory
A prismatic morning shines past the tethered gate, towards the dew;
Southern architecture painted for guilds that hide the resentment
Aching only for fickle feelings that walk away;
Dead as tomorrow's amber roses
Alive as the breath of yesterday
Only to control ones own heart in a desperate attempt for deliverance;
In tender harpsichord memories, leaking from the bitter pores of existence
She climbs to the upper caverns of deception
Grasping on the prose of dandelions cradle
To bleed for the echoes of discord, that lie in waiting;
Blanketed upon mourning conversation, that lifts so coldly
Mistrust dangled upon the ancient branches of Anastasia's tongue
Only to weep with copper tears
Upon the grave of distant sorrow;
Forward not, the bells of Bathory
Are heard no more.
©Ashley Leslie 2013
