Transcendental Sonnet #1118:
The Death-Cry of the Madwoman Organist
a scene from my childhood
The madwoman organist when I was a child
Fascinated and terrified me
With hair like Medusa flaming eyes rolling wild
Purely insane she clarified me
Ancient of days bane of the young blood on her breath
Present always her song was sung only in death
Like a black swan and then she was gone
We children watched through her front parlor window there
Those gnarled and twisted fingers clawing at the keys
That mask of death that white flame of her matted hair
We could hear no sound but we could feel her disease
Then at the end when she opened her mouth to sing
Out of that abyss her dark offering was heard
The death cry of a lonely misbegotten bird
+Steven Curtis Lance
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