In the inner court aborning fog adorned the cold March morning
As I trod the herringbone brick path that led me to a place
Seen in one disturbing vision, at the time of the collision,
In my mind a sharp incision time would neither purge nor case,
On my quest of revelations the dark maze I had to trace:
Track a lady christened Grace.
Eerily, no sound would jostle sacred mystic nature’s rustle,
Hooded crows there pillage garbage as black cats deer mice deface;
Swiftly northern winds got fuming, frozen sparrows started screaming,
In the sky a pale sun gleaming through the haze-invaded space,
Molecules of smoke and humus polkaed deftly on my face;
But of Grace there was no trace.
When I reached the stairwell landing of the tan torn face brick building
Soon my iced up nostrils thawed with the bouquet of bouillabaisse;
T’was so still you’d hear the echo of the motions of a gecko;
On the inner walls a fresco, on the floor a broken vase
And some weathered relics from a golden age we can’t replace:
Then I heard a double bass.
As my heart was wildly pounding, towards depths my way was winding
Leaden double bass still droning, charcoal sweat flowed down my face;
As I dropped, a decrescendo while my pulse reached a stringendo,
Clammy walls gave innuendo there my ghost I would encase,
My remaining lifeblood wasted in a fatal chase for Grace;
On the wall there leaned a mace.
Rusty shovels draped with dank clay, in a spandrel on red shale lay,
Through a cleft I saw a shadow, could it be the one of Grace?
It was then I heard a rumble as the string of stairs would crumble,
Walls shook plaster off in tumble, thus revealing the high place
As I clutched the cast iron handrail, dangling feet in empty space -
Struggling to the spandrel brace.
Through the cleft I penetrated one grand sulphur-permeated
Hall whose walls the still lifes of Picasso and Cezanne would trace,
In the corner black antique hearse, blanketed by scrolls of dark curse,
And graffitied with Rimbaud’s verse, sketches of the Virgin’s face;
Soon there closed a lady donning frock made of Chantilly lace:
Thus appeared my lady Grace.
Ashen was her smooth complexion, and her visage pure perfection
Though coagulated blood had smeared her angelical face;
Her plush breasts and tempting lush hips matched her charming purple full lips
But her neck and shoulders bore rips that e’en time could not efface;
On the ebony four-poster bed I was soon laid by Grace,
Strongly held in her embrace.
First as hard and cold as marble, murmuring exotic garble,
She was like basalt that fused and melted, bonding in embrace;
And inside her flowed pure manna as she wildly cried “hosanna”
In the temple of Diana, love profaning sacred place;
Thus my conscience captured in the existential prisoner’s base,
In temptation of her grace.
“Welcome, darling, to the life’s swath, realm where reigns the death’s-head hawk moth;
Trapped between Sheol and foul Gehanna is this Hilbert space:
Our Rosetta stone decipher or condemned here to be lifer,
Is the only choice on offer; I have made mine,” whispered Grace
With a kiss suppressing pining to rejoin the livings’ base;
In a coma I’d found Grace.
Copyright 2009 by Marc-Andre Germain - All Rights Reserved