Larissa

I roamed the bitter city until I found the shop.

I bored into it, and my heart couldn’t stop.

A rose I bought you, preserved and red.

For by my heart, I was led.

Larissa Iceglass, a woman most known

for her monotone voice and the following she’d grown.

From Sweden, she came out of the dark

to stalk in the moonlight and pen-cold remark.

Her voice does not pierce nor stab.

If anything, it is rather drab.

Like a child first learning to speak,

but with the ambiguity of one who’ll die in a week.

She sways on stage, noose around her neck,

painting ballads of gallowdance, parrots, trainwreck.

She paints her lips crimson red and noir black.

She’s left me now, never to come back.

It is her seclusion that lures me in,

like Eve and the deadly sin.

Her plain expression facades even her thought.

In her brown eyes, I was caught.

She stares like that of a stone wall,

as she stands like a crypt statute, proud and tall.

Her black hair running ever so short—

soul locked away in her own Jericho fort.

Yet as she sings, my mind cools for a while,

manifested in her post style.

Her words: simple, cruel, honest, and blunt,

just pure vehemence, lacking lyrical stunt.

But Iceglass is one of two,

for William Maybeline is her musical glue.

He contrasts her with harsh sound and dance,

screaming and hissing as if in a trance.

But in the dungeon club below the city,

pressed against the low stage, packed and gritty,

she flashed before my eyes,

and was gone before I could rise.

Desperate, I withdrew my rose high.

Yet, William turned and, with a sigh,

walked past me without accepting my gift.

I was left broken, trapped in a lidless rift.

For this is who they are: closed doors.

Individuals as deep as bottomless mires.

I judge them not for refusing the rose,

for accepting would’ve broken their stoic pose.

Larissa still dwells within my heart

forever roaming my graveyard singing her art.

I know I’ll see Iceglass again one day,

and in the tomb for two forever we’ll lay.