To me when I think of him, I see him
Crunching merrily through his deadly sins
I can’t hear him above the din
Of his bloody heartbeat as it sings
A song of deadly red lust, and I wonder
When will he begin his chase to the embrace
He has summoned through his dark arts.

And then, as if made woozy by my wondering,
My head starts to spin, giddy, mumbling,
As if he has fed me with cyanide, a fainting drug
I’ve become numb, I can almost feel his arms around me
And then I wake, and see us, teasing amongst
A thronged swirl of bloated ballgowns
Creeping, twirling, through the night.

Now he’s menacing in the light of the half
Veiled lantern which turns delight sour
In this the witching hour he consumes me
Leading me away in my dusty pink chiffon
He takes me to a corner, and whispers, every
Gothic delicacy that curls his lips into a smirk
To see me, trapped, his little caught bird.

But these are the daydreams of the night
Passing shadows that glimmer at dawn and fade
He is no phantom, so why should I be afraid?
I could court him into my own trap, and paint my lips
And nails red and veil my eyes with black mascara
And practice seduction as a language I am equally fluent in
I will write the script, and draw the stage,
Turn the gold tipped page and sketch my own ending
And make him no less loving for lusting after me.


Rose Staveley-Wadham