In the Garrison of Charon
Behind my sunken, shallow eyes
dissected phantoms draw themselves
and smeared perceptions comprise
a scheme to thwart the wicked spell.
Poignant screens of smoke and screams
lactate upon my lungs
where illustrations scrawl o'er dreams
of twisted eyes and cursive tongues.
And burning embers torture groans
in visual dreams like vocal hymns
the sound a scratch on chalkboard bones
a testimony of the grim.
The injured malevolent and destitute,
their pity played on sane despair;
decapitations done of gratitude
throw heads aloft the endless massacre.
The milk of tattered spirits wreath
the blades that Chaos thrashes round
and restless victims thrash beneath
unsettled graves, unholy ground.
I'd flee the bloody Styx and death
but taints of darkness linger on
enmeshed in sticky threads of Fate’s dank breath
I know survival would be a phenomenon
And as the oars of Charon paddle hours
I will not pray to reincarnate
for Life itself is damned and it devours
with wraiths of faith I cannot satiate.
Copyright © Jean Marble | Year Posted 2006
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