W.S. George
writer composer

From Beyond

I heard her speak
with words which proved
her frantic soul
was held against her will.

She crossed the threshold
of her grave and said
such things that left
me mad, as mad as she
had been.

She fluttered above
the gates of Hell
with tulips in her hand,
her ghastly face hid
behind a veil, and sleep,
a sinful sleep was in her eyes.

She loved me well, she loved
me briefly, called me “darling”
and mocked me with her fevered virtue

Perhaps she thinks she is some species
of virgin come to life again;
my own lady Lazarus
still stirs, still does not sleep.


© 2017 William Saint George