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.
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