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Chris ❤ 🏳‍🌈  🌀 HOUSE WANDER's avatar

Les vies d’Emilie

The mirror that hung in the east wing

carried this family’s secrets for generations.

Not proudly like a banner into battle,

Or worn and weary like the old man, bent

Beneath the load of firewood handpicked from the forest.

No, it carried the secrets, like a letter in a pocket

Of the spy on his way home from France,

With the note from the Cardinal to the King.

Or like the confessions that weigh down the priest,

As he pours another drink, sips, swallows, throws down

As much spirits as he can.

The mirror had seen the horror,

The love that was the curse, and

Sadly the curse that was loved.

For long enough, one becomes the other,

They twin and twine and dance about each other,

Snake eating snake

Never knowing the beginning or able to hope

For an end.

The Son of the Manor,

For there ever was only one. (And never a daughter.)

Doomed to fall in love.

To a child bride from the town below.

Who would become engorged with life on that first

Time, the red sheets hung forth upon the window sill.

And nine moons on,

In that room, in the east wing,

Where that mirror hung,

The son was born and again the mother perished,

Not in screams, but in a quiet silence.

And in the yard,

Fenced with knee high wrought iron,

The grave is dug,

In line with the others,

With the same stone, carved with different dates,

Here Lies Emilie de la Ville.

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The Graveyard Kitchen's avatar

Here is my submission

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