So Pale And Hurtfully Prissy Poem by Mark Heathcote

Why does she come shadow dancing up my spine?
Doesn't she realize I've served a necromancer's time?
Melancholy is a thistle, a rose garland in black holy
her love a so-called red beating heart, a coulee,
a furnace, a kiln, a blue broach of cracked enamel:
Why doesn't she sliver like a feline fox, mindful?
Into that toothless-fearless smiling dead cemetery
who is she to be so pale and hurtfully prissy?
God only deny me the light to slay this shadow
the strength to live and breathe again tomorrow.