Below is the poem entitled Sleepless in Whereis Part 2 which was written by poet
O'Leary. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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Continued from Part 1
The forgery of Multitudes between the Silhouettes,
(and discarded cigarettes,
neath the haunted parapets)
mock my lonely echoed steps
– mock my lonely echoed steps –
(struck like clicking castanets
– struck like clicking castanets –)
as I lace unlabeled lanes, erasing silence’ sullen treason.
The mossy stones befuddle me, in winding rue rosettes,
(veiled in vials of anisette
sipped within the oubliettes)
midst the mazy minuets,
and the purling pirouettes
of the fugitive Grisettes
(flaunting charms and amulets)
who, in flitting shades of arching bridges, linger longer, teasin’.
Along the When I’m drifting, but a stardust castaway,
weaving, threading by cafés
and deserted cabarets,
just a gauzy appliqué
on the river’s crippled spray,
chasing Fools along the way
through the strands of yesterday,
neath the throbbing peal of sobbing bells of spectral cloisters quaking.
In belfries, high and haughty, alabaster Knights perform,
riding stiff against the storm,
steeped in clouds of chloroform,
while the raven skies deform
and my shrivelled shovelled form
(rapt, while bats in steeples swarm
close to candles waxing warm)
hangs in hallowed hallways, hiding, shoulders weary, weak and aching.
Around me hover grinning masks and visages of Queens
flashing fatal final scenes
of demented doomed Dauphines
(on the scarlet sky they lean,
dreary dripping guillotines),
traced in opalescent ballrooms only tattered time remembers.
The hidden hands of Harlequins (while floating free, unseen,
miming secrets, sibylline,
kept in shrouded Halloweens),
tap (on tumbrel tambourines)
a dirge (with tattooed tones pristine)
for me (a heap in ragged jeans
in these crazy cluttered scenes),
trapped interred in toppled stone chateaus that dismal dawn dismembers.
Rogue breezes pierce, benumbing me, I feel my fingers freezin’
(in the Cockcrow’s purple season)
though within, no rhyme or reason,
caught impaled upon the jagged edge of early morning’s breaking.
The chill evoking silver chimes of Nodomain start knelling
as the searing sun looms swelling,
and their monodies hang dwelling
in the cloud drifts’ care, revelling,
but the Sandman’s too compelling
and my weariness impelling
– though my eyelids risk rebelling,
where I’ll fall, there’s no foretelling
for the starry sky’s past telling –
as I fade beneath the flaming forge while embers tremble, waking.