horror creeps
curling from somewhere dark
beneath unwashed carpet
soon to be another’s mat
mudding over once rich purples
trod by the prince of anhedonia
who would never be king
this is the time
but not a hand nor a finger moves

only black keys and bomb blasts
pepper the night where jasmine
once hailed the coming of saints
preambling a fanfare
never heard, never finished
the sand slips again
untouchable behind cold glass
this is the time
but no one hears it called

• This entry was posted on Thursday, November 1st, 2007 at 6:42 pm and is filed under poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.