Le Petit Morte Part 2-Le Ressurection D'Art

(i) Le Ressurection
(The Resurection)

Midnight’s black veil had come without revelation
As from my grave I awoke without hesitation.

My coffin was lined with the finest of silks,
In my hand lay a lily that had begun to wilt.
I opened my empty eye sockets of mould,
And began my descent through the earth so cold.

My pale hands clawed at the mud that was damp,
As I dreamt of the night that Art would be re-vamped.
Past the worms, creeping, I stole an upwards glance,
The stars that twinkled upon this second chance.

The dirt filled my mouth with the foul taste of death,
As air filled my lungs for my very first breath.
My tattered shroud billowed in the breeze
Of this night time wind that made my soul freeze.

My headstone lay in ruins and inflicting,
The spirit with doubts of contradicting,
The final resting place of an artist so sad.
Now here to instil truth beyond passing fads.

I began to walk through this City of the Dead,
As the zephyr stirred the hair on my rotting head.
Past the graves so neat, flowers in tribute,
I must now find a soul to repute.

The rain began its sad lament
Upon this earth, no sacrament.
My soul was wandering without a care
As to where to find my kindred debonair.

(ii) Chercher un Hote Tombe
(Searching for the Fallen Host)

This city was vast, a tomb of life,
Filled with the woes of many a past strife
Yet my search had begun, for my Fallen Host,
A being with a vision that I could make the most.

She was a scarcely more than a little girl,
Whose face was framed by angelic dark curls.
I found asleep upon her bed of velvet,
Ignorant of the rain seeping through the parapet.

She stirred in her rest, a small moan of anguish
But nothing compared to the deed I must finish.
I admired her face, an angel’s touch
That moulded the features and asked not for much.

By dawns early light, I was ready,
The knife in my hand-I held it steady.
For this girl must die today, for the sake of my Art,
It’s a pity I had such a shameless black heart.

I saw her arise and walk through to her bathroom,
Such an ordinary area that would become her tomb.
I waited a moment for her return,
This body was mine, I would not be spurned.

I raised my knife and brought it down quick,
I ended her life with a slit throat and flick.
This child died upon her floor in the dust
“Doubtless,” said I, “I did what I must.”

(iii) La danse eclairee par la lune recommence.
(Our moonlit dance begins again)

My eyes were real,
Yet again I could feel.
No longer a corpse, a bride of the grave,
Through this terrible act, my Art had been saved.

I looked into a mirror of gold,
And pondered the move of which I’d been told.
Soon my Mistress would come and all would be well,
That is, if I had not sent her to hell.

I remembered her cries
As our Art had died,
The rape of the whore,
Whom I had begged for more.

I began to paint
Of my afterlife so quaint.
As I awaited my Mistress, Lady of Blue.
Of the nights when I was her, and she became you.

The sun was sinking upon the horizon,
When I heard the knock, of sweet loves dark poison.
I imagined her whip of stinging kisses,
And felt our love, and how I had missed it.