A vine wraps around
The poisoned fruit
And intoxicates the
One drinking its elixir.
Visions of the dead
Dance like ballerinas
On hollowed ground;
La mascarade de la mort.
The comedy is finished,
The tragedy an art
That betrays the artist's
Faux pas extraordinaire.
As time ticks onward,
The clock forms a smile
As the hour tolls in loudly
À la nuit noire.
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Online) - Published: December 27th, 2017 02:41
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 32
Online)
Comments1
Why are you using plural? Also “mort” is masculine.
Um...because French is not my primary language, but that’s no reason to shy away. 😉 This poem was calling for it. Thanks for the constructive feedback.
You’re welcome.
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