Montresor/Down Vaults- Basilike Pappa

Montresor - Pinterest.jpg

Since I was born

I’ve been a point definitely settled

(Roses are eaten fragrant)

 

Was it the same with you, Montresor?

Immediate risk of disappearance?

(down vaults where the dead are)

 

Repressed grimaces, forced smiles,

baptised in delectatio morosa.

 (violins playing obsession).

 

I bet you wrote poetry once,

dreamt of being a highwayman.

(Each laughing mouth a wound)

 

Into that hidden maze –the lifelines on your palm–

I kept myself a secret

(down vaults where the dead are)

 

movement – a measure of how long

until I turn myself into

(walls between a man and the Carnival.)

 

 

a weaver of grand jests,

the echo of rich laughter.

(Down vaults where the dead are)

 

Us: the smirk of a god.

We grew to be nightshade,

(loose teeth in the mouth of the earth)

 

but roses? Never.

We were eaten fragrant.

(we’ll stay awake and play.)

 

So be it, Montresor:

Let’s take them by the hand

(Come jingle all the way)

 

through corridors –our mind canals–

and whisper in their ear

(down vaults where the dead are)

 

tales of stone and mortar

below the river’s bed

(a little song called murder).


Basilike Pappa lives in Greece. She likes her coffee black, her walls painted green and blue, her books old or new. She despises yellow curtains and red tape. She can’t live without chocolate, flowers and her dog. Places she can be found are: kitchen, office, living room. If she’s not at home, I don’t know where she is. You can find Basilike up late with a notebook in the Silent Hour.

Author: Kindra M. Austin

Author of fiction, poetry, and very sweary social commentary. Editor and writer for Sudden Denouement, Whisper and the Roar, and Blood Into Ink. Founder of One for Sorrow. Founding member of Indie Blu(e).

42 thoughts on “Montresor/Down Vaults- Basilike Pappa”

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