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Poem

On a wicked night

In solemn silence finds its beckoning call

No shoulder to cry as in its deafening blow;

On a wicked night proned to fright

Within darkened portals released in edged fragments

Having silenced to usurp its beckoning call,

The devil that deceived them was cast in;

Within its barrage filled torment with skull etched in glass fatal pass.

A cue of self absorbed inner proned scorn,

To ever curse the given day they were actually born...

On a wild wicked night proned to fright

No shoulder to cry evaded after the fall

A peril of self obsobed ritualistic clamour

With a port in storm one could varily see,
The abstract thought in a destination proned from reality.
Soaring within destination parts unknown with its flow
On some sullen wicked night to help inflate the common ego

In vain torn sickness to help light the spark,

In decadane charade to help fight for aid

On one wicked night proned to fight,

Through faint scenes within a heart that's pure

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