The Other Tune
Undead be its name. There is not other word for it. The heart as strings, finely sewn, and tightly bound; anchored to the maidens soft skin. Were it a normal lass, her strings would play no tune, but this one, this one plays very well. A word, a kiss, is all thats needed to get the Harp into much gear. Tight the stings pull, played only by an actor, as they dance this stage. Free for all, and free to come, the Harp and Player, be both as loved. Tis our fine grace, that they bring us this tune, this chord and this ensemble. Of flesh, bone, and wood, I now ring the pen and flourish upon the Mistress' back. If the heart were strings, I know of them not; I know only of the Harp, and the sweet supple Lyre. But Now I speak too bold, for bold is the image; and full of malcontent, save for those who can appreciate its beauty. The twigs of war are what bring me here. As each stroke pounds my drum, I now beat my heart, as my own hymn begins. Deep are my drums, and deep is their sound. For my own maiden awaits, and I have much blood to bring to her. Cruel she is, yet she demands Heads; and thus I go collect. Death are we, my maiden and I; as pen to poet, and Lyre to Lover.