Saint Alphonse Poet Blank verse

A Dark January

I

Boastfully, I regret no deeds,
my sins are minor, lame, and weak.
These children, though born dead, are strong,
like a necromancer, I make them dance.

Machineries, and wretched whores,
all linger midst my core's hollow depths.
So violent, I reproach their names,
like demons, they return the favour.

Silence now, no not a sound,
save for my gears, grinding gold.
A littany, these vicious lines,
meant to be enjoyed in Death.

So let me sleep, wake me not,
the Grave is my truest home.
Quietly, I shall decay,
and I will become my art.

II

Burn this body, this sinful cage,
bound to Earth's pleading ways.
My soul is chained within,
the keys just out of reach.

Pleasantries, I crave emotion,
intoxicated, I find them here.
Cells may rot, the better then,
so that the soul may roam.

Spread the ashes near and far,
somewhere left unseen.
Not valiant, not brave,
I am the Coward's King.

So still my heart of violence,
let the impurities flow.
Diminish all your foolish laws,
this soul belongs to me.

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C. E. Mcmullin February 25, 2009 at 2:14 PM To say that I was impressed would certainly be an understatement; The lines, "Quietly, I shall decay, and I will become my art." just sent chills down my spine- Ms. Sylvia Plath was, and continues to be a teacher for us all, as her voice is certainly echoed in your work- I look forward to a lot more of your wonderful creativity- poet butterfly