Gripped by an impenetrable sadness
near the drawbridge, John Grim retches
cold lies the sweat upon his forehead
old at heart he enters the ancient church
sombre shadows surrounding the altar
as crows enclose the woeful's flesh
and dire, ringing ghost-octaves
of organ strains in the chapel nave
swirl in his mourning eyes, his tortured soul.
Hid in his black robe the bloody blade
that cleft her ripened beauty, cold and pale.
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