Twila Sharpe: “The Tale of the Tomb-Gate Spire”

Used by permission. (c) 1983 by Twila Sharpe.

Caspar David Friedrich – 1825

 

“The Tale of the Tomb-Gate Spire”

 

(The Prologue)

 

And, when I have fallen, fallen low,

Wilt thou follow the smoky path

Of my imprisoned wrath,

Along the benevolent, sleep-worn stone?

 

To dance a dance, devoid of all mirth –

Entreating a fragile mind:

‘Remember the days bound to night,

This death denied of the eager earth.’

 

Embittered, enshrouded heart of pitch –

Wilt thou pen a death-verse above my head?

Laurel crown, withered words kings’ once said –

Sorrow, for the selling, hath made me rich.

 

‘There be not a kingdom to want my soul –

Lest the remnants of a marble empire

Make so bold, The Tale of the Tomb-Gate Spire,

Se’er of secrets chained within its hold.’

 

And, inside that barren, barren crypt,

Betwixt sleeping relations’ couch,

Betwixt the leonine mouth,

Long ago, this hollow shell was slipt…

 

(The Tale)

 

No bell did sing that distant hour –

The crimson pyre of Black Death

Flamed their visions unto dread:

Where, this errant son to embower?

 

Albion – her unwitting arms outstretched –

Took him, quietly, into her keep.

Here, there were few who dared to weep:

When starlight fell, the six were fetched.

 

At Eagle’s Hill, there, they laid him down.

In coldest stone, the King had him interred.

By tallow glow, the Queen inferred.

A whisp’ry shadow, still, did stalk the ground!

 

When lightning and havoc brought to sight

The features so wasted, they were stunned:

As brother, son – a creature, long-since shunned –

‘Neath her pane, the pitiful lover, watched by night.

 

And, soon, the rain that dropt the freshest rose…

And, bare the garden, her elixir, drank the Queen.

When doomed lovers – their eternal life obscene –

Danced no more; ‘twas then, the tinkling box did close.

 

The Evil Three:  The Parson, Seaman, Witch…

A neck to break, before another hung –

Avenge the Queen, and hush the Seaman’s tongue –

An end to deal the Parson, brick by brick…

 

Magician, pause, reflect this, thine ungodly life –

Upon a table, Countess, tarot cards rescind

That deeds be done; yet, one desirous to amend:

Beseech the King, to free The Hound of Strife.

 

‘Embrace the workings of The One above,

And thine impure heart shall know The Cross

That doth secure eternity’s loss.

For the hands that bind, acknowledge love.’

 

(The Epilogue)

 

Thus, I did sail the maelstrom and quagmire

Of Life and Death – a sweeping vortex.

In death, a sentinel stands a-gate to vex –

An imitation – yea, no churchly spire.

 

‘Hast thou been sure, hast thou not heard?

Hast thou, uncertain, pushed past that steepled thing?

O’, treasures ‘wait thee, for thou hast caught the ring!’

The wall of idle fury utters silent words…

 

And, inside this barren, barren crypt,

Betwixt sleeping relations’ couch,

Betwixt the leonine mouth,

From ‘round a bier, the bonds are slipt…

 

‘There be not a kingdom to want my soul

Lest the remnants of a marble empire

Make so bold, The Tale of the Tomb-Gate Spire,

Se’er of secrets unchained within its hold.’

 

If one were lain to rest in an old churchyard, the steeple might point the way to a heavenly reward.  Here, in this mausoleum, the top of the tomb’s gate – as if the entombed were looking out – becomes the “spire.”  For the vampyre so entombed, it points the way to an unholy afterlife, and… an uncertain freedom.
© 1983   Twila