I’ve not made it any secret that my true muse has always been Death. Whether it is the McKean/Gaiman creation from the Sandman graphic novels, the skeletal waltz danse macabre, the cloaked guy with the scythe with a knight on a beach, the vampire at the window asking for permission to cross the threshold, or the Mórrígan, Death has been the audience I most write for and am most inspired by.
And I know one of the things that may raise eyebrows among some folks is that I typically personify Death in my head as a sensual female. All kinds of Freudian fodder in there, I suppose.
Something splintered in her head. Shards, onyx, bursting outwards, daggers and knives, feeling as if they poured from her eyes crisscrosscutting, the soul in the ocean blue, eviscerated.
Likewise, the birdcage where she kept her heart shattered like broken glass, shredding it like so much meat, crushing pressure inwards — she was sure her chest had collapsed in the train-wreck twisting rail singularity.
dame mort, je l'aime
longing for her kiss
i wait for her lean
over, a secret smile
her finger on my lips
hush, now -- she will say
soon enough, mon amour
Originally posted on sceadugenga.com
Note: my apologies if my French is bad. I know just enough of multiple languages to get myself in trouble. Don’t even ask about the little Russian I still remember, it’s pretty idiotic. And only slightly better than a Dick and Jane story. Very slightly.