Lover's Folly Poem by Orran Ainmire

My Lady is the eve of Spring-
so cold, fetid, and dead.
To her new life I bring
through my blood of crimson red.

With this knife I sever
and expose my veins to air.
Tirelessly, I endeavor
to rejuvinate my Lady fair.

When she awakens from her sleeping,
I pray to receive a kiss.
While the blessed ichor is still seeping,
we'll enjoy a sanguine bliss.

I brush away a strand of hair-
stroke and caress her face.
Her parted lips invite to share
a taste of Elysian grace.

'Will it be enough? ' I wonder,
as she bathes in my life's worth.
'Or, perhaps, there is more to encumber? '
I thought with a bitter mirth.

Here, now, in this morbid tomb
made of earth and stone and clay,
I rest my head against her womb
as my vision begins to fade.