Les Fleurs du Mal

Oh, I the wetly weak claw 
led by his strong warm paw 
walking the forbidden path 
through high uncut summer grass 
while hunters nose dive 
membranes servants to their flight 
were buzzing all around our heads 
black parasol, balance and shades 

Those little bells on my fool's cap 
all witness to my sad defect 
crowning my pale seriousness 
in most ridiculous distress 

The smile on his weather-tanned face 
his white teeth somewhat out of place 
the gentle roughness of his hands 
dark soil staining his fingernails 

Ushered into the forest's hold 
I'm folding up my parasol 
heralding fears of deprivation 
in answer to my hesitation 
he's parting the branches as we move 
I dare a smile in shy excuse 
Oh does he know the ghosts I drag 
the dreadful ending I expect? 
The boyish hand of this olden maid 
hints secrets, guarded by her face 

Does your world know my shadow's near, 
the loop of time I always fear? 
The fact that I carelessly stepped 
into my very own, dark trap? 
You stride, I'm glancing at your belt ... - 
should I miss any of the things I never felt? 

The shaking hand of this olden maid 
instead waters the flowers 
on her ancient grave.