Wicked Little Game





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Adrian Von Ziegler “My Black Rose”





The clans of the east exchange fables of She
While the winds carry screams from the west
Few know the truth
Fewer still who dare venture will ever return from their ill-fated quests
The black heart of darkness bleeds tenebrous ink
Which many would sooner see seized from her chest


As She sinks her incisors into my neck
Prising wide open the vessels bedecked with her prize
I watch both her eyes rolling back in her head
Feel obliged to confess that I like it
Cobblestones dressed in the colour I spill
Of a will far more free than convulsion suggests
Observing red trickle through the cleave of her breasts
I heave at the lace of her corset
Watch it divorce from the rind of her flesh
And pull her in closer with clement


Surviving defendant denied of life sentence
Need nowise be tied to such writhing impairment
Provided her sizeable hunger is quenched
Prior to bleeding me dry
I would die once again as I have many times
Should she grant me release from this perished mortal life
Rise willing to forego every day for its night
Take her hand into mine as we build an empire
So below, as above to the towering spire
If only to gratify last breath defying bite


Children of the void devoid of earthly ageing never die
Midst shadow they deploy envoy to tell of secrets devilised
Deputizing those composing throes of lives desensitized
Empathizing eyes agape that widen whence they sensualize
From another time and place entirely
These eyes without a face
For shade provides vulpine disguise


Her mesmerizing gaze beguiles
And all the while, her smile spellbinds
Calming all distress arising
Blessed be her energizing curse
Tenderizing skin of bind, the rind of most insipid worth
For She is mine as I am hers
Has long since been the same
Thus, every hundred years or so
With little give or take required
We take this moonlit waltz of ours
Commence to play our wicked little game





Richard Charles Stevens


Keeper of The Crimson Quill





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