Harpsichord On a Stormy Night

A wild pagan, the wind, a spectral masseuse, Blunt cudgel and claw dipped in liquid frost, To corrupt and ravage the pit head columns, As black trees threshed and leaves were tossed; Slapped against satanic steel mill backdrops, Thrust over crusty cracked fissures of rock, The rattling rain gunned down the mountains, Scattered the sallow, forsaken flock. In the forks and tines of lightning stabbing To bomb the moon and shivering stars, Ivories tickled by ozone and aftershock Shrilled in a sky of splitting white scars; The harpsichord played on a stormy night, A melody wracked and cracked with disease, Jagged enough to split open the heart, For nothing and no one were sat at the keys…