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Staring there, leaning to the city moon |
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Casting silhouettes tall to grip her white rooms |
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The black clad voyeur in his black clad masque |
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In the serpentine sun of tragedy basked |
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Stood there cursing at the soul dead mass |
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With their fabled illusions, vain dreams that passed |
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Splinters of a life rushing by in the whirl |
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A lone silent warrior in a fantasy world |
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He cried for night but night could not come |
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So swept in the shroud of misanthrope, he went away |
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And fed the empty galleries |
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With the artifacts of the black rain |
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Sunken into the shadows with a dry sardonic smile |
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He made the footprints a part of his heart |
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To rouse a sacred confrontation |
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Stood at the carving on the monument telling lies |
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Digging of the earth, making friends with the soil |
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As the all mother rises and bares her bleeding thighs |
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He disappears into her cold, icy womb |
