The Trickster
He abides within the seeping creaks
Of this my cold, dust-ridden chamber –
Upon whom profligacy wears itself
In garments silken unto ruggedness,
Palpable against my holy essence.
He speaks unto me dreams of romance,
Whereupon my rotting soul decays
Amidst the fruitless trees of my youth,
Whose twisted branches melt the wax
Of the fading sun.
He shrieks in melancholic pleasure,
And the shriveled leaves of autumn
Crumble beneath his whims, no longer
Breathing upon my soiled demesne.
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