Grave

My Grave I’ll grace with Poppies and the Moon
With stems of inflorescent Aconite,
Adorned, like Berenice’s courtly tomb,
Wherein she slumbers, ever sacrificed.

The Moon I’ll usher in to guard the gate,
Geminian dispassion e’er alert,
No heaving Helios shall violate
This dark, sepulchral grotto, nor subvert.

The Poppies strewn, a tapestry in red,
For bloody deeds that cannot be undone,
For Daughter’s eyes ne’er opened, only bled,
For wars profane and frightful, riven Sons.

O, Aconite! My thrice-beheaded friend!
Medea’s bane of wolf will serve me well,
The hooded monk my Soul will spirit hence,
To sleep, perturbed, eternally in Hell.