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It's a lonely night with no love in the air;
hopes and dreams disappear;
within the lonesome latter years
Dark Angel takes a stand to his dark throne,
Bewigged from what's right and what is wrong,
In veils, and drowned in tears,
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly,
Mere puppets they, who come and go,
how everyone loves a Vampire show,
I paused and emptied glass of the fame of
blood at last,
at bidding of vast formless things that holds
the night screams that sings in the darken winds
that shift the scenery to and for,
flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe of what humans don't know
they are about to lose their lost souls,
That motley drama-oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot for life time years of my
bight of the night with a dark knight
Salem’s Lot never to end,
It just gets scarier;
hear on end and you didn't hear me say a man!
through a circle that ever returned in
to the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
This sort of thing doesn't happen much,
But when one sleep's,
you never know who is looking in,
but see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude your sleep and you
cry out for help,
But no one hears a thing because for them
it was too late to awake;
a blood-red thing that writhes from out
the scenic solitude,
It writhes, it writhes, with mortal pangs
the mimes become its food,
and the Dark Angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out goes one's life for the thief of the night
over each quivering form,
the curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
Dark Angels, all pallid and wan,
uprising, unveiling, affirm,
that the play is the tragedy "Man,"
its hero the Conqueror of its fear of
the dreamers hear an end.
Poetic Judy Emery © 1980
Copyright © Judy Emery | Year Posted 2017