Court Masques


We drift,

like deadly nightshade

in the shadows

of circumstance

without the convenience

of a saviour

to plead a case

for our advance


To break the chains

of bitter feelings

the iron rust

of crumbled chance

won’t you lead us

to this graveyard

for a while

in macabre danse?


So torturous,

like mother’s labour,

a parting kiss

or lover’s lance,

we lie rotting

in our memories

with idle notions

of romance


Can you hear

the people yearning,

throwing hearts

to the expanse?

like the authors

and the poets

blown by spirits

we seldom glance

© Christopher Raine