Down the dimly lit corridor, she had watched him go,
And into the kitchen, where he swayed to and fro.
It seemed to her, he had not yet awoken,
That his mind had, for the evening, frozen.
He walk into the kitchen in deafening silence
And poured himself a very tall glass of absinthe.
Over his drink, for a second he hovered.
Then, strangely, he poured himself another.
Most peculiar, the cross he had always worn
Was suddenly cast upon the old wooden floor.
He carried a glass in each hand, so careful,
Then left the house, up to the cathedral.
These things were all the child had seen that night,
But a tragic betrayal came in with the light.
He grabbed the girl, and held a knife to her throat
“Father!” She tried, but it came as a croak!
Then limp she went, a slave to her fathers dagger,
And guiltless, her slayer left without a stagger.
A sickening thud as she hit the ground, lifeless,
Her eyes wide and bright, somehow still frightened.
And innocent he held through a crime unconcealed,
Though his motive for murder seemed far less than real.
Night fell, he took her behind the cathedral,
Where the graveyard lay, dark and beautiful.
By his passed wife’s headstone, he waited and waited,
Until the moon was alive and clear and blatant.
She leaked from her headstone like a stream of smoke,
Then her eyes found the slit in her child's throat.
She touched the wound and it turned to merely a scar,
She stole into the body, alive as a star.
Around his neck, naturally, her arms now wrapped.
Finally together, as in the past.
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