Let this story of The Son, his Mother and Death be a tale of caution as you tuck into your bedcovers.

And remember: the lesson here is not to speak to Death the matters of lovers.

For what had driven The Son to consequences dire,

was learning that his beats Mother had attracted the vain, tyrant King’s desires.

The Son had feared a life alone,

and so, gathered his blood, spit and a bone,

to request from a Witch a recount that could mean for him glory,

for all who knew her knew her power to make the dead tell their stories.

He spoke dearly of his Mother’s love of him and his wish to keep her ever-near,

but, really, it was the coin that gave him the Witch’s ear.

And OHHH! did that Witch make good on her toil; she spoke a tongue that she had never uttered before and made her body dance and coil.

And she did entice One to step beyond the veil

to speak of dark things and speak them well.

From the other side

did this voice arise,

and speak rich and sweet like honey,

and give The Son advice worthy of his money.

It was that had made The Son scheme poison for the tyrant King’s to drink when time came to sup and imbibe

and dreamt of freeing his Mother of an ever-after as the tyrant’s wife.

And yes,

as you guessed

during the stroke of night when goblets did lift

was there the juice of nightshade for the tyrant King to sip.

Only

Only

Only the King had made the mother drink from his glass first.

And made hers the death in which The Son felt never-ending hurt.

As tears from The Son’s eyes burst and flowed

Death himself came into the room and made himself known.

For it was Death who, in the Witch’s hovel,

had come beyond the veil to hear The Son grovel.

And he had felt a sole flower of Love in his chest bloom,

and wished to be himself the Mother’s groom!

And off he carried her to Eternity as his Bride,

and left The Son to grieve as he was accused of treason and tried.

The Son’s soul would only come to know after his cold body was tossed in a gutter

the weight of his loss and fate of his Mother.

And yet, as cool night

turns into fiery sunlight,

you’ll forget the caution I first uttered,

the lesson with the tale of The Son and his Mother.

So I’ll say it again so that, for you, these events never transpire:

Don’t ever forget the dead tell stories—and even Death himself is a liar!