For so long you’ve held the key, the scepter and the crown,
Harrowing the reality, the subconscious, the deep within.
Your voice was deep, poignant, forbidding. Clattering like,
The tumbling down of ancient and spidery bones, swishing
Like the dust raised by warm nocturnal winds above the grave,
Of underneath whose cold stone, you speak.
I’ve held on to these, the pain most notably, the curse of living,
Clung to it as one would a shepherd’s staff. I was bleating, you, stoic,
An anguished ghost whose wispy façade slashes through the ages,
Thru generations of minds in the offing of torment. The honored
Priest above my chasm and dreams, whose scepter whirls an order,
to the bottomless chaos, defining, refining.
Such morbidity, such dusky frights and ebon like chill, thawing,
turning ductile the mind’s seams to enable comprehension
of misery, for one, for two and for as long as dreaded numbers
Could gnaw, could go and would soar. And then dreadfully and
just as suddenly, fall. But always finds in the descent kindred misery,
Again and again spewing thermals for tattered wings.
Aye, my friend, you’ve enabled these, I followed your grim lead too,
Debauched a day, or two, or three. I honestly can’t remember anymore.
When you despoiled your body did you lose your soul? I asked this
Because mine never was. It was never lost. But you, aside from being
a friend, are a terrible despot. For you bound my soulful core, right
after you cried over lost grains of golden sand.
Alas, when you failed to save even one of these grains from your
Clasp, why the need to wail and ask if all that we see or seem,
Is but a dream within a dream? Why cast eternal umbrae over
Those sojourns which aside from your company lifts my weary
Psyche? Those twilight times when I can escape and open the
Drain in the reality of my life?