Remorse

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.

An abandoned passion

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
and the shadows at the altar
as crows enclose a death
and the melancholy ghost-song
that fills the empty church
and the handle in his monk's robe
of the silver, bloodied blade
remind him of her lovely face
and pale breasts, now breathless, by the moat.