The Dark Shroud
The dark shroud over a night leaves nothing
Out of harmony. It’s the curtain fall huffing,
After the day’s theatre. And some ghouls
Drop their angel masks on these cues.
If your bat eye isn’t wide open to what’s better,
You’ll stumble, fall, and your hope severed;
And on this sudden bed of thorns now spun,
You’ll moan lamentations of the forsaken one.
Then say, ‘On this feathered pillow, are claims,
Of me balancing my head on upturned nails;
When midnight chills on my skin, the sky refuses
To take up the smoke, so no fire or its seducers.
Where pride dressed me up regal as to adorn,
It has become some cursed beauty to mourn.
The mysteries here demand all my sun memories.
They gulp down honey, vomit back bile charities,
But they don’t tell me it is so and insist it’s wine,
I drink it. It splits my tongue. Now I’m dumb and blind.’
Wake up. Dawn is here. Harmony still redeems.
Now keep watch. Not everything is as it seems.
