The Blood of Evening
As the angels of
laughing ladies,
gently anticipated,
the doves of virtue
and grace, beautifully,
a bastard of mote.
A master of beauty
the essence of dazzling
affects, the whimsies
of witch, sorrowful,
attaint, ghostly dialects.
For the princes' coming
the giddiest of sickly
man-staggers. Proudly
the poltergeist wrote.
For triumph, proclaimed
victory, the blood of lazars.
The caduceus of darkness,
chastity and grim,
our righteous in light,
Sons of God, they resurrect.
As the light of
Venus, our amorousness
of pathos, an alliance
of golden virtues,
a dynasty brilliant.
The blood of evening,
vespers of red tides.
An eidolon choir,
the phantoms,
revenant. A man
of prickly ears,
keen senses,
an aporetic.
The blessing bestowed,
now upon, the harlots
of misery mysterious.
Her knowledge, her spare,
her wisdom, her wit,
the crux of
ancient Hesperides.
The jealousy,
dear Jeezebel,
the maelstrom of
eidetic hysteria,
an endorphin heretic.
Copyright © Trevor Morse | Year Posted 2006
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