Mark Heathcote (22/03/66 / Manchester)
Death - mischievously, cheekily, asked
Death - mischievously, cheekily, asked—Life
For the hand betroth to be his beloved wife.
I’ll render her beauty, forever eternal,
Worry not” bride or a mother maternal
To be, if you would but sincerely, wedlock me!
But – Life, being life, took-up the parlour-game.
The parlour-knife; asked him, Death - What is his fame!
Apart from the maggots his lips, throat, garrotte.
Death – answered - Life’s betroth. Beloved this,
“If you would but tend to one desiring kiss…
I’ll promise not even one more wrinkles crease.
Upon that milky skin of bliss, so not, commonplace!
I’ll share you, with no other – especially with - Life
My brother - to which her heart; did race, fivefold.
But - Life’s shadowy, impermanence, beheld her midlife,
Suspended in its own little crisis… blindfold…
What, fear I’ of growing old with him, who honest
Does love me more than was ever shared or told.
It’s then Life’s Betroths fever broke in earnest;
And married, bound by two rings of gold.
Both Life and Death… but Death never matured.
Never learnt of their riches, secretly, foretold…
Instead, he put Life upon the scaffold, persecuted:
Silenced only by the sea,
Of his betroths wailing cry.
Comments about this poem (Death - mischievously, cheekily, asked by Mark Heathcote )
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