Sta.sh
A lone candle, flickers, lights the page
As her delicate hand scratches her marks of ink,
A letter for her lover.
Her breath, a cloud in the cold winter air
Blown in from an open window.
A small wax stamp finishes it, sealed in tight,
Passed to a velvet glove and ghosted away
Into the night; "Fly fast sweet messenger!"
The moon waxes and wanes, then hangs in the sky
Of another bitter dusk.
Her smile of glee as the velvet glove returns
Soon fades as the her eyes fall upon his words.
Dear Christine, this letter is my last
As now I march to war.
Our enemies have united against us
And I feel my place is amongst rank and file
Of our glorious army upon the field of battle.
To war, my love! To war I march!
To fight for what is right!
But fear not for me, my love,
I will return, I will be alright!
A wash of worry overcomes her
Like a tide of vermin, dragging her down
And gnawing at her mind.
For what will become of her love
When faced with sword and death?
Many years have passed since then
And now he returns home from the war.
A knock upon a dusty door, it creaks open
And reveals a scene of desolation.
The musty smell of decaying wood and uncared home
Floods his nostrils, a welcome change from blood and gore.
He ascends the creaking stair and there he finds his love,
Illuminated by a lone candle, flickering
In the cold winter air from an open window,
Hanging by her kneck from the rafters.
An upturned stool lies by her feet,
And the floor is tainted with the claret leaked from open wrists
Upon one of such is tied a dainty scroll.
Dear Marcus, this letter is my last
As now I march no more.
My enemies have united against me,
Doubt, worry, I can take this no longer
As I feel my place is amongst rank and file
Of damned souls doomed for suicide.
To war, my love! To war I march!
To die for what I love.
But fear not for me, my love,
For tonight my soul takes flight.
A razor soaked in blood beside the stool
Becomes a means to an end.
Such hard crimes upon soft cells performed
As metal glides across the skin, softly,
Biting deep wounds into wrists once caressed by love.
"Dear Christine, reserve me a space in Hell
For I am right behind you."
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Mistake: kneck is spelt neck.
The hell?! That's a typo, not a mistake, lol!!!