"What the Deuce?"

Inspired by the scene in Mr Rochester's bedroom from Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.

Calm and content,

Curled up in my cotton tomb,

Transported back to the womb

Where I dreamt endlessly.

There I smelt my life

Imminent, timid,

But virgin and vivid.

Here it is different

And deadly.

My life reeks of decay

As it burns away;

I taste the ash of my lungs,

Anaesthetised, desensitized,

Stupefied and condemned.

Scorched by conflagration,

Numbed by smoke,

But I do not choke

Just sleep

And keep on dreaming.

My cotton tomb ablaze,

A-kindle and consuming,

Collapses while still fuming,

Swallows me as I slumber

Or so I thought.

My maid she came a-wandering,

A-wondering,

And saw me here a-slumbering

In my cotton tomb of fire.

I felt her drown my death,

Extinguish Hell,

Restore my breath,

And I awoke in a fit of passion,

‘Deuce take me, what has happened?’

The timid creature,

Like newborn life,

Stood trembling, as well as I,

But told the tale

From start to end.

I implored of her

To not say a word;

The events of which have occurred

Are our secret –

Instead I enclosed her in my arms

As rapture seized me in its jaws,

Dragged me back from Death’s door

And threw me at her feet.

I praised her long

My preserver, my protection,

Then let her shivering form go

In the wake of my affection.