Fervor

Gaze upon the thirsty masses,
round callow eyes,
in their fervor,
clouds turns to ash,
and bombs scar the
night sky; golden fireworks
cascading
like entrails
into greedy mouths
and empty bellies,
as the bloodlust
crescendo
breaks apart the
empty temples and
brazen bulls,
the earth
take them all to
her bosom
to eternity's
rest.

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Turning away, the frail old bones - a dimly lit prison
only window to the soul, light the pathway with
rosy incandescence, ring the heart's torch
with a drunkards heavy haze, content
again the leafy clouds embrace,
while dewy phrases uncoil,
like the hangman's
noose, softly
swirling
fragments of
the mind, thoughts
trickling into silver
goblets, and layered smiles
sickly sweet, like the dance of
bees swaying in summer's wispy wind,
with kings and gods, death and the goddess,
festooned in the midnights' gloaming, forever an
acrid tale for minstrels at the doorsteps of the unholy.

Restless Leaves

Wither away in the
restless leaves
like stained red flames
against an orange sky,
the embers sway in
a lustful whisper of the wind
and the icy sting, winter's breath
bleeds through a tattered mind.

Hollow limbs dance along the
edge of a lake of mirrors
in an infinite gaze,
rain, tranquil in the mist,
as the soul flutters away,
leaving the body to linger,
in the restless leaves,
with a dagger through
the shriveled heart.

All Hallows Even

O' dance in the foggy gloom,
baleful creatures of the night,
under the moon macabre,
somber, fiercely blazing eyes
of the ravens, piercing maleficient
minds.

Run away now, my dear
under the inky sky!
Dash along the rickety
old bones, turned to
dust, revived by lurid
dreams.

Drink deep, potion of the dead,
alchemy of the ancients,
cadaverous mouths greedily awakened,
by the gnashing of teeth,
while each pace brings certain
doom.

Too late, for the earth is alive now,
with swarthy hands grasping,
a tangle of arms, pale in the
moonlight, taking you back
from whence you came, to sleep in the
darkness.

Malady of the Flowers

My amorous Dawn,
pause with me for a little moment,
here,
beside the sick flowers,
salacious Dawn,
why must you be taciturn now?

Brooding upon the darkness,
all the while, as the morning air
congeals around the colors of
God's eye, Dawn are you with me still?
I would that your threadbare love,
rival the world aflame.

Along the cottage streets where harlots
reign, glancing come-hither behind
the red curtains, billowy
with the rhythm of ancient blood,
Dawn, will you not rest with me
here, alongside my bitter heart?

Now Dawn, iridescent, resplendent
in the rosy clasp of Helius,
can you sense malady of the flowers?
Transcendent in your lost eyes, I falter
in the hollowness of reason,
and the ambrosia of time.

Empty Shelf

In the night-time hours,
the footsteps of a madman,
remain calm, even against
the call of the faceless
wonders, and the embrace
of the neon widows,
unfettered, unrelenting
the crunch of broken glass,
scattered underfoot, splintered
dreams, yet the feet keep moving
sometimes fast, sometimes slow,
always forward, till
everything becomes one in
the moonlight, still trudging
over bodies, sinking into
the marshy pavement, feeling
numb after one last drink,
and that look in her eyes,
speaking to me from the
edges of memory, soft words
and lips, painted across my own,
yet moving away now, afraid to
die while the night is young,
like a new star, the city
twinkles with pure intent,
yet remains incomplete,
a masterpiece torn by
regret,
gathering dust on an
empty shelf.

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Through that window pane,
as the rain rolls downwards
beady, loving streams,
in droves the innocents rave,
snarling eyes, with fear
in tow, balefully gazing
out that window pane,
when the waters' rush
outside muddy river banks,
spindly fingers caressing
frozen faces, cold breath
upon the window pane,
Death, that old
reprobate, hanging about the
trees strewn thick like haystacks,
he'll catch his death in the rain
dripping through the branches
like honey,
run away now, the view is grand
and there is safety in
numbers,
behind that window pane.