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Oh Ringletted Wight,
I know you're somewhere out there in the night;
I've sensed you hover past my window pane;
behind those black-out curtains, felt you drain
the atmosphere of light, while you're unseen,
the raucuous wind enveloping your screams!
Oh, Ringletted Wight,
the graveyard past this terraced row's your home
Since that day I saw that hearse tableaux,
And noticed your excitement, the keen glow,
of your eyes, so eager to catch mine,
I've ached to see your plight, your sad decline!
We talked that day.
So eerily you spoke, as though of now,
of your job, as mourner on display.
And yet you did half-know you weren't enfleshed.
Yet, whilst I hurt,
to see your sunken cheeks, flushed fiery red;
your waxen pallor, form so painful thin;
the hectic's froth, damp on your temples waves,
long spaniel curls, which coiled so lush and black -
so quick I caught, your half-done plans to snare,
my soul to your possession, so to keep,
your half-life fueled, banished from despair,
with light of life's blood make yourself complete!
And so this night, -
as other nights before, of storm or calm,
I've shut thick curtains tight, sat up to read,
with barriers of mind, protective charms.
But, more I hope, that next door's pretty Belle
who sleeps alone in sky-blue summer shift,
made latest style; her hair bright sunny blonde,
enwaving to white sheets past peach-like cheeks; -
(one ruffled strap, down by her nubile breast),
knows the danger close to us, or wears,
her daytime's crucifix.
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