XIII. Venom in the Vesper Bell

The steeple is jagged, a splinter of spine, Piercing the clouds and the black, bitter wine. The hammer is heavy, a mallet of lead, Striking a rhythm that rouses the dead. And as the brass shivers, a liquid descends— A venomous echo where sanity ends.

It drips from the rafters, a shimmering green, The foulest of sours that eyes have ever seen. It pours through the ears and it clings to the brain, A syrup of sorrow, a nectar of pain. I try to stop breathing, I try to go deaf, But the bell is a predator, stealing my breath.

“Listen,” the iron-tongue hollowly tolls, “To the liquid that leeches the light from your souls.” The notes are like needles that sew up the eyes, Muffling the logic and feeding the lies. The village below is a puddle of ink, Where the more that you listen, the deeper you sink.

You’ll taste the cold copper, you’ll swallow the sound, Till your heart is a bell that is buried and bound. For the vesper is calling, a toxic refrain, And the poison is playing a tune in your vein.