Ghost Of A Rose -Or- As The Cherubim Lay Ravaged
When kneeling my way to the gate of a moon,
When the captured stars did echo a tune,
Mirrored cold in a radiant swoon,
Which went for eternity.
Stopping at shores, did wings from a yard,
A pasture of bones and glass hearts scarred,
Came fluttering gently passed eyes on guard,
And lent derision to me.
The sweet song of sins did ride on a wave,
And pierced into kernels of a gypsy’s iced grave,
And when from a sharp tinted crib was made knave,
I chanted of misanthropy.
My enemies watch, and laugh with deep lines,
And vomit upon the bitter-sweet wines,
Which grow from an orchard with vempyric signs,
And bloom from a serpentine tree.
Gilded and dashed upon a blood-lettered floor,
With scriptures from orphan, raven and whore,
And laced with a ragèd fruit of abhor,
I crow at the temple’s debris.
Behind a frail masque, all manner of shit,
Confusing of scrawl where slur could emit,
And rainwater washed so I could transmit,
A mind of eccentric degree.
The beast of negate did holler and bawl,
Under pincerèd whips enchained in the thrall,
While scratches and slits did tattoo his call,
Slaughtered I, his need to be free…