The Ballad Of Beatrice Gold

Mystical and horror poem written 4-14-25. Songs Of The Spirits 1. Content warning: Violent imagery.

1.
Arising anew,
A fresh creature gasping,
Whimpering,
Opening my eyes

A flash of recognition,
Strikes me as I see,
As I begin to resonate,
As I begin to know

You, Mother, are the first,
The glowing face that burns,
The glance that can make me,
Real in a moment

Yet you look away,
To other sharp-edged silhouettes,
You make others real,
Bargaining away my foothold

2.
Despite myself, I grow,
I find new glances,
To make and unmake,
My stretching sinews

A specter of a girl,
Who I always was,
But never quite am,
Haunts my mind

Black-haired and pale,
With eyes like mine,
Beautiful in all the many ways,
That I am not

Yet she frightens me,
Even as she invites,
And pulls me, whimpering,
Into that jagged history

3.
All aboard the Orphan Train,
We cross the tiny world,
She and I as one,
And everyone, everywhere, is hungry

The fire in my belly,
That never finds enough to burn,
Spreads into my bones and brain,
Birthing a new and dread power

Hunger begets pain begets hatred,
And finally contempt for all that lives,
Until the train stops and I see,
The open farmlands before me

I am brought to a new home,
The itch of cut hay,
And the sharp stink of manure,
Fill me with uneasy hope

4.
That hope is dashed,
Quickly and completely, 
My new home is a workhouse,
My new siblings are slaves

Our work is endless, meaningless,
We don’t even feed the hungry,
Every last grain of wheat,
Is mere grist for the still

This farm trades in pain,
Importing children,
And exporting drunkenness,
To slake the country’s endless thirst

The darkness in my waking life grows,
Until I have the next vision,
The girl with black hair embraces me,
Then at last begins to speak 

5.
“Beatrice is beautiful,” she whispers,
And all at once I am in shadows,
“Beatrice is beautiful” she sings,
And the crawling things skitter

The world behind me fades away,
And before me stands a great yew tree,
Echoing death’s endless transcendence,
And fixing the center of our devotions

Worship begets tribute begets sacrifice,
The trunk of the yew is bloodied,
As my wounding miracles speak softly,
To the wounded hearts of my siblings

It was just a matter of time, really,
Before the blades of my priesthood,
Fell one upon another upon another,
Long red wounds grinning wide

6.
Which of me came first, I ask,
The dreamer or the orphan,
The black-haired newborn goddess,
Or the merely me?

Which of me is really real,
Which of me can live on,
Beyond the gaze of my siblings,
Who have become my prey?

The time is coming,
When I must choose,
For the bloodthirst rises,
And there will be more than pain

The watchful boy with the blue eyes,
Wishes to catch me, to hold me down,
To make the black-haired goddess his alone,
So I must become

7.
My voice begins low then rises,
A keening, rhythmic song,
I point all fingers at him,
Making him preen and shine

The others spin and circle,
Round and round they dance,
The blue-eyed boy in the middle,
His back against the old yew tree

Too late he begins to realize,
That the wind has shifted,
He relishes the eyes upon him,
But finally hears the manic song

It happens all at once,
I thought it would be harder, but no,
Just suddenly slumping meat,
And children proudly looking to me

8.
In silence we cleaned the scene,
A wave of nothing covering,
The evidence of the blessed work,
That had happened there

We all knew, of course,
The indifferent hearts of our “parents”,
No questions were asked,
And a new orphan soon appeared

But as each came of age and left,
They held their memories tight,
They held the yew tree in their minds,
Remembering well the lesson:

Make a sacrifice to your own might,
Of any who would hold you down,
Beatrice is beautiful and will come to all,
Who would call her name

9.
Now a woman grown,
And as happy as is reasonable,
I wonder at my childhood visions,
Of that black-haired girl with my eyes

I have read of the Orphan Train,
I know the ways of blood and yew trees,
I have gained the Mark Of Mastery,
And worked my will in the world

I know that true and untrue,
Is a matter of what we can live with,
I have attended upon spirits,
And been attended in turn

So I know that what I saw was true,
Even if it wasn’t exactly real,
I know that, always and forever,
Beatrice is beautiful