Raver

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he’s a raver, deep from marrow, born
who screams at moons to curse the morn
and though his flesh is bloodless, torn
he woos the beast inside him
for night alone won’t hide him

he creeps the nettles, scratched and red
to find the temptress for his bed
but with the madness in his head
those angels - dark and ruddy
find all their wings, now bloody

oh, once this manic’s dreams were pure
of maidens, graced with grace, demure
their loins, quite worth a birthing’s cure
but he drowned all such humors
his passions, turned to tumors

those virtues, pure, were sacrificed
for panicked potions - poisoned, iced
no hellion’s draught had e’er sufficed
to scald his veins through rapture
death’s tonic, claimed for capture

but there beneath a gold doubloon
the grip of dripping deviled moon
that man left all his senses strewn -
hopes hanging on a door-hinge
with high-priced bitter orange

there are no versions of the truth
no happy end, this saddened sleuth
what waste, the years of wondrous youth
those scores of bugles, blaring
changed to a dirge, despairing
bright eyes, a-dead and staring …

bright eyes … now dead.


( Painting by Achille Chiarello )

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