I’ve laid by her for ten years now
beneath these creaking boards
an axe between my long-gone eyes
a spectacle of gore.

She rests beside me so composed
in mournful pallid sleep
the knife between her once proud breasts
buried in her, deep.

We once were lovers long ago
a tumultuous embrace
that stirred the heart and seared the soul
yet led to this disgrace.

Oh, how we loved! – but hid it so
for our love was not our own
our fingers wore another’s band
in that our fate was sown.

And so it was that ill-spent night
while in her husband’s bed
this tempest that we so adored
met its eternal end.

He came upon that half-split door
and heard us at our labors
rather than just turn his back
too long he stayed, and savored.

In passion’s heat that man did boil!
until his sanity was rent
Hell-bound, he turned to go and find
the tools to his intent.

So while she rode me wild and high
he crept up from behind
and swung that axe and buried it
where flesh becomes the mind.

Now splattered with my life’s remains
my love did disengage
terror-struck, she scrambled up
and stared into Hell’s rage.

“Your turn comes now,” he said to her
but I’m sure we’ll meet again
soon we’ll all taste demon spoor
for tonight three souls have sinned!”

With that he drew his dagger out
ten times as long as wide
and by her hair did pull her close
still naked, to his side.

Then slowly, gently pressed it home
until its hilt did rest
above her still, now lifeless heart
between those lovely breasts.

He closed her eyes, and laid her back
to rest upon his bed
then on the floor, took bar and claw
to these boards above my head.

He put us down here, side by side
sealed tight from life’s fair light
‘til rot and mice and death’s decay
made our bones commingle tight.

I’ve laid by her for ten years now
beneath these creaking boards
no better death could Death decree
may it last – forevermore.

Image credit:Kieth Misner

Mike is pleasantly retired and lives quietly with his much, much better half, Erica, and three cats (Gus the dog passed away a few months back, but still deserves mentioning) on a tiny suburban spread outside Tampa, Florida. He has a handful of publishing credits to his name, nothing to write home about. He takes long suburban walks, reads a lot of poetry, writes a few here and there. Looks forward to sunrise, appreciates a good sunset, and does the grocery run every week. The basic stuff. Life is good.