Well, my fanciful gents and ladies, ol' Pribski's gonna be off taking ye olde GRE tomorrow morning, so no Friday Morning Poetry. Due to the general sense of doom that is laid across my shoulders (I don't wanna hear any bitches talk about how easy it is) and also due the the fact that tomorrow begins the bewitching month, I thought I'd have a special fright night Thursday evening poetry. Enjoy. And wish me luck.
The Fearsome
Time plays upon my vertebrae
And brains
Refrains
Of danse macabre
Like xylophones
Alone
In halls of stone
Fell drums thrum, beat and throb.
I turn and seek to glimpse his mask,
So pale
I quail
Think not to ask
If his lined face
Bodes ill,
Or fair--a thrill
Of doom! Please lend me grace.
He smiles, laughs crackling, paper thin.
Dry rasp
And grasp
Bare bone to wrist.
He's clutching tight--
And cold,
So musty, old,
Pervades my soul with blight.
My screaming sorrow, wept away,
His dance
Perchance
A sight to see.
A joy to him
Is fear
Now dance so near
With him--my vision dims.
The dark smells like a burning leaf
My sins,
His grins,
I see his teeth.
His gasping breath
Is hoarse
And wretching, forced
Through lips alight in death.
Have nice Fridays!
posted by dan @ 6:58 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home