My Chosen Prison
To the Bronteâ€™s You ate the Dead, and you dreamed. You visioned and laughed inside golden, weakened heads. Whose lost dreams were you drinking for your health? Whose post-mortem Hell were you performing and playing in the heathered light of the moor-theater? What was it that made you stumble and bled your life? The dirt is stained with a thousand broken promises. The fluid of life was dense with death and duty, and Madness stems from Decay. Stranded to the taste of soil, you drank, you toasted, unwary of neighbor-blood. You drank, You cackled, and the madness was hidden though the taste of it bled through.
Christine Kaye Severson
To Sarah Winchesterâ€Ś Sarah, your ghost hovers, too â€“ confused, but not appeased. These were the rooms you designed with the diligence of guilt and fear. This was your plan propelled by bloodshed, by the thunder-cracking, scarlet-loud sound of death. This Labyrinth, this altar to blood and sacrifice served to distance you from fragmentary wisps of the crimson tide you married. You run, now, your face pale as the rest. These generations of respectable guilt will not let you rest in peace. You married Death. You had no part in creating him.
My Chosen Prison
For Harriet Westbrook Shelly Looking slyly down away from his rebellious tresses â€“ Perhaps you smiled, your chin turned mildly down towards your breast towards your chest which contained the heart that would, like his, drown. Was he God-like in his atheist oddity, golden and handing out tracts with the steely righteousness of youth? Was he almost porcelain in his stiff and noble stature, sun rising over the small hilled muscle of his broad back? How did you know the panic of the turned, sun-burnt shoulder, the smoulder of a passion that would not palpitate, the passion that only paled the imitation of what you must see: This brazen bull turning away from a Harriet, eagerly, hungry, to his match, to his Mary?