You pretty thing
on the marble steps,
living for tomorrow,
in the shadow
of a shallow grave
where they buried your smile
like a knife in the back.
There’s an hour,
with witches breathing freely
and a moon as full
as hell’s boarding rooms,
when you revive
from a sleep so deep
you shook the hand of the devil
and sent a chill up his spine.
The angel in you
is an autumn’s burnt leaves,
a sacrifice
to pagan forces
who raise your spirits
from the rotted bones
with flattering incantations:
‘You pretty thing.’