The Ghost (Part II)

By: Shalymar P.

V
The Vernal Autumn
 
In the parched breathless Autumn, I came to the aged room with oaken wood wrinkles and tapping on the floor boards with my leather boot,
A subtle weak noise awoken from the stiff tiles, and scorched by the heated lips of the copper-tinted Sun,
Glinted specks of streaming silver dew rang of the window’s fogged blue glass,
As the barren shattered trees in the dooryard below streamed with riveting veined red and gold leaves as wet cloth ushered in the air,
As the sweet perfume of the earthen soil bloomed with the sprigs of yellow grained corn and red crimson green apples snapped from their haulm,
And their rasped the warm hot breeze as a tender strained voice of a wild goose,
Where the screeching song of wind broke at the orange colored tinted window by the limp golden Sun,
As the brown earth cooked as thorns in an iron skillet of red wailing fire, the airy steam gasping as breath from the fruitful thirsted land.
 
 
VI
The Second Vision of Lady Phantom
 
And as I stepped to the east of the room where the delicate spider webs bloomed as white silk tinkling with the gentle melody of dew,
The ghostly silver mirror stood as the gloom of an ink- drawn, coal- black feathered raven above in a rainless storm of shivering lightning,
The lilac face of glass as the silver ocean rippled under the frost bit Moon with gray puffed cheeks ringed by flustered blue sores,
And the invisible eyes, white mouth, gray brow, and silver tresses burned to the iron of the glass as ashen smoke rising from the flues,
And I asked in a bewitched rasping murmur, “What is it you plead, Lady Phantom?”
And an ice azure bloom wilted with wrinkled aged veins and in solemn wind fell to her pale palm, (pale as her writhed cheek),
And her voice strained as gasping for the airy breath at her white lips, “In your cold pride as frost you will become as me,”
Fire seared in rage and cooed in my bones that it sang gold and burnt all myrrh in my heart,
“You sinful gorgon of the Infernal Regions! Speak the truth or I shall shatter your encasement of glass!”
“In soothe your cheeks shall be the powdered white of bare Grecian carved figures and dry scorched Pompeian wells!”
Where the Maiden Ghost faded once again in a feverish glow of violet light faded, as the ageing early southern wind in the flowering Spring.

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