Bleh with Barry

Aubrey Beardsley [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

My King,

Ages have passed

Since you called me

Last from the cold

Depths of my dreaming

*

You speak and the

Country trembles.

Might giants whisper

Your name as a

Nightmare to their

Progeny and I hear.

*

The icy chill of

Air against my

Dark, dank, water-

Logged flesh. My hair

Once the color of the sun, drowned and

Matted, a dirt caked white.

*

But I hear you and pull

Myself from my aquatic

Slumber. Why can’t I find you,

My ageless King? Has your slumber

On that eternal isle been broken to

Save us? Or are you decayed and broken

Yourself?

*

I race to look, but the pebbles

Dig into my bare feet

Causing me to spill

Some of that sacred, crimson

Liquor, and  I can’t find you.

But your voice echoes like wind through

Branches, trees, nature itself.

*

Still, one is willing to bleed for the

Beauty of your tone, if only

I can find you. The trees raise their

Limbs to evangelize to

This heathen goddess, but I heed not

Their actions.

*

I still feel you and long to

Find you. To feel the calibur of

Your kingly character is my sun.

I turn to its radiance but never feel the

Warmth on my face. Bring me back to

Existence, back to being needed.

*

My jaundiced and paper-skinned hands

Cling tightly to the Burnished iron, rusting,

But the magic is still there and belongs to

You. It rings with your call but cannot find

Your worthy form.

*

Please, come back to me.

If you desire, I’ll be your

Lady, always. No matter what

Lance or Lot may attempt to

Spear me.