POETRY

The Palace’s Penitent Wall

“The Count hangs the glum portrait of his Countess; it lies beside the cold gust of an open window…”

Up there

on the palace’s penitent wall, the Count hangs the glum portrait of his Countess. It lies beside the cold gust of an open window, and a lulling moonlight, just as she used to. Inside this golden picture frame — a common craft of guilt and shame — not a speckle of dust dares to fall on the impeccable dame,

For the Count will never let anything touch the impeccable dame

In the dead of night he comes alive after yet another dreadful slumber in his newly lorn chambers;

He treads the worn, green halls; a languid figure with fits of paranoia, for the Count sees dark silhouettes creep around the picture frame,

He sees the shadows taking his fallen dame from him; Her portrait laughing, in hysterics, until her cheeks are but a soft pink

The Count’s desperate steps creep closer and closer,

He runs like a fragile beast in these halls of arsenic He takes out his emerald handkerchief and wipes, and wipes her portrait and frame, until it’s as spotless as his precious dame.

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