A Never-Ending Need

In graceful shattered,

liquid greyness.

In flowing capturers,

of brief, Heavenly reveal.

Weary pools, of calamitous blacken silk.

Hidden beneath ageless anguished, sorrows

and silvery shrouded silence.

Cloaked distinguishably in top and tails.

Mirrored in shades of night-fallen obscurities.

Breathtakingly coupled beside twin anxious mares.

Drawn for a sinister, jewel box coach.


Beholding the mysterious, fallen stranger.

Whose come, bedded charmingly within an interior,

of rolled, and tufted ruby valor.

Displayed like, ill promised costume trinkets,

and baubles.

Weighted under a decaying heart,

growing, in size and repentance.

Beneath the passing seasons,

of the scarlet moon.


He’ll grow weaker,

while growing stronger.

Emptier, for fulfilled hunger and thirst.

And more lost, then the innocent virgin,

he now enchants from an Abbey secure.

Like other wasted Maidens, Gents, Mistresses,

and Masters across time, the seven seas,

countries and centuries.


His damned, disgraced fate.

Sealed when long running, ruby red locks,

just over five feet tall.

Framed in lost purity with devastated green eyes,

and trembling smile, brought him from being the Sainted hunter.

To being the hunted unholy, by his ancestral family.


Who released his beloved Constance,

from her dreadful curse, some,

many a dismal Summer mornings, ages ago.

A regrettably choice he made for a life of knowing.


Knowing Kings and Queens, Noblemen and paupers.

Crones and handmaidens, saints and sinners.

Knowing life and seeing it fall.

Some near and dear to his blacken heart.

Some strangers from afar.

Knowing, had they come at him first,

they would still be whole.

And not one in hell, waiting on the other side,



While the other is squandering away on this side,

lost in eternal despair.


With each fairer soul summoned and claimed,

to his fated life, or much worse.

Such as now, as he lays in wait.

Calling with his piercing vision like commandments,

For his next fallen prey.


Sweet scented Linaria hypnotically,

Will abide her new Masters remorseful hunger.

With nary a final word or note left,

of her enamored leave.


Not to family, friends, or betrothed.

Across the darken gardens and vineyard,

onto a baneful garden.

The Gypsy girl steels at seven strikes,

of the village rectory bell.


Leaving only a faint, wild rose scented memory trail,

in the soupy mist.

As she unknowingly fleas towards the coming ravenous consumption,

of passionate needs and demands.

Braided tenderly around breathless,

empty I love you’s, in tuned harmony,

with the lovely children of the night,

heard through open, wispy curtained, windows,

and swinging terrace doors.

As angelic Siren’s serenades, an unholy seduction for the latest feasting,

laying eclipsed behind a billowing, spider web canopy.


His wife’s design, kept in loving memory,

remade a dozen or more times,

in her chosen cascades of romantic hues.

Ivory whites, purple violets and crimson reds bolts,

carried over the centuries, since her murder.


Spilling into spinning florets,

of starburst, sunshine rays.

Flourishing into cascading Interlacing tulips,

skirting around, shadowed ill-fated love.


As it was then, it is now, two lovers intertwined,

within the lonely boarders, of satin burgundy carnal,

possession, for all time to come.


Or until, his and Constance’s little angel says,

“Papa, I’m not scared anymore,

can we go be with Mama now?”


2017 ~ Words and Illustration ~ Ruth Ann Cutler.


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