Povero Diavolo

Behind the mask made of many ears Calla lilies earnestly listen Their canals thirst for morning’s song For the manic moon stared upon us with hollow light transfixed Behind the mask of valley’d green palms and snow clad ears was the sound of a weeping strong A poor poor devil sobbed a wraith’s rain makes sordid soil rich Drowning under mud, drowning in life crimson portrait all contorted Blood seeped from his horns breathing in the cloudless day How does a face so hollow brim with dismay? How can a flower pot host be so morbid? Sniveling at the sight of the sun, lip quivering throat like a Gordian knot What a Hell it must be to be a He whom savors Sodom While being exposed to a season’s birth present for every blossom’s budding.