Suzy Sue and the Lighthouse Blues

                        Her breathing passes out-of -town boxcar vestibules, amidst shattered glass and forlorn curtains. We are all being swept away, diminishing softly to velvet skyline, below the coming nightfall. Softly descending, her words are delicate, her shrill immaculate, stored away in dusty cupboards aside the vacant mausoleum. Wooden symmetry, it is of the angelic variety, she hums a dated tune upon her deathbed. The air is lazy and stiff, Suzy Sue and her county line ethics. We toasted blood in brighter days, where vibrancy soaked her feminine flesh in mnemonic undertones. I had time then, time to ponder song in daytime pastures. Afternoon breezes would graze the interior lining of her violet skirt, in framed innocence of inquisitive blackbirds, imploring the crescent oak, through frail premonitions of a jaded sky.
                      Nocturnal at best, this year leaves me sighing in ghastly intervals. The pale boughs of Autumn hung before the swaying mantle. Adorned in cherry lacquer, the poison berries that glaze diamond chandeliers, hung still between creaking floorboards, and pillared marble ceilings. She has come and left before me once again. She was a morbid guinea pig of heavenly options, she bled with the fluctuating seasons, imprisoning her voluptuous vulnerability to night time deity, dangling pulsating limbs from perpetual staircase landings.
                       The tide rolls in gently from the the midnight Pacific, then roars from ivory crests in damp evenings amongst rainfall. The incandescent light beams mount their way through thick heavy clouds, off the Western shoreline, while the village sleeps. The grim lighthouse watchman keeps tabs with the national guard over tedious charades of solitaire and chess. Flimsy screen doors that swing out onto the bay window, generations of bell ringers, and grave diggers, whirl ceramic plates in domestic upheaval among these poorly furnished quarters. Impoverished, I was when we first met. We were young on Tuesday mornings, amid the daily market,  scents of raw dead fish and putrid oyster shells still fill my inflamed nostrils with nauseating remembrance of you, Suzy sue, and ol' desolate me, with the lighthouse blues, once again.