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Fairy Tale.


Laro.

Where seven sad rivers issue from caves guarded by goblins with all-seing eyes,
I watch from a distance for tokens adrift on the water
from dungeons deep beneath earth where the Dark Lord harbours his prize,
the beautiful Princess of sunlight and snow, stolen one evening at dusk,
bound to his charot by ropes of green fire,
bound to a throne by a chain thick with rust.
Eliza, Eliza, I hear your sad cries
borne on the cool midnight breeze;
the albino owls that hunt with the Moon
whisper your name in the trees.
We grew up together, those long childhood days of innocence,
short-lived and sweet,
now you lie chained in the darkness beneath,
at the heart of a cthonic maze, where yellow-eyed basilisks
snore in the gloom, restless in lizardous sleep,
stirring to lick at the lustrous jewels
that fall from your eyes as you weep.


Eliza

Beloved Dark Lord of my dreams,
I admire the bright fire that dances in your eyes
that thrill me with eager surmise.
But touch my lips with your hand of dark flame,
whisper endearments of dread, awakening slumbering womanly desire
where I wait on your fire-petalled bed.
For enchanted aeons I wandered the world of sunlight beneath empty skies;
now the dark gloom of perpetual night is alive
with my laughter and sighs.
The surface world seems like a dream to me now,
shallow, insipid and drear;
the friendships and loves of my girlhood are dust.
Midnight and exile I hold dear.


The Dark Lord.

Eliza, my pale-skinned sapphire,
living, breathing gemstone of my heart,
your love leeches away my darkness,
turning my adamantinr flesh a ruddy tone of orange;
I feel mortality suffusing my immortal bones
and fear for my divinity.
the cries of the damned no longer fill me with pleasure,
I have become tainted with sentiment.
my goblin lieutenants glance at me sideways
from their green-whiskered faces.
Better it were I had not caught and wooed you,
enthroned you in my underground palace.


Laro.

Now sorrows tune is all but played out
as Deaths fingers reach out for mine.
I've watched and I've waited,
my beard has turned white as frost or the cold winter Moon
but still no word comes to my high tower vantage
- no whisper, no token or sign.


Eliza

Lord, your child is growing in my belly.
I feel the kick of his eager limbs.
I hear his inquisitive questions in my mind
as he tosses and swims inside me.
visions of sunlight plague me:
sickly green fields and balls of pale flame,
never quite setting over hazy horizons.
Soon your son will be born and there will be
two Princes ruling in Darkness.
Soon I will be both lover and mother,
dark crowned queen and wife of perpetual night.
My joy and victory will be complete
and all the world will sit at my feet
as the dreams of the lacklustre surface-dwellers
come to pay obeissance
and marvel at your ebon-armoured,
magma-sceptered puissanace.


*

On his Dark Throne
Night's master sat
as still and as mute as stone,
his dark fingers one with
the bones of the Earth.
His black ears heard the far moans of mortal souls
torn from the coils of old flesh,
of seeds pushing hungry green shoots up out of darkness
and into the detested light.
But no sound came from his obsidian lips
as he wrapped his shroud of perpetual Black tighter about him,
examining the pale new leprous things that had
sprouted in his heart,
undecided in his darkness whether
he should strangle them now,
or let them live...