He tries to rest in peace this poet who lies asleep
contented yet a very restless soul his walls adorned
with greasepaint splattered recklessly as a lost artist.
Will he lay there yawing with fear of his impending
yet obscure death as he questions himself in his
restless kicking sleep while impotency curses his
For a poet he be a restless one bent in obscurity
yet haunted by sleeping demons he squints with
eyes bent in the solitary light of his bedside candle.
His ceilings dancing and adorned with captured lights
reflecting roaches scurrying to and fro amongst tobacco
stained Smokey cracks of opium dens above.
He prays for dawn to thrust itself upon his angelic
solitude trembling with hope and exalted by its
incandescent warmth upon aged bones drunk in
his fasting yearnings for a solitary vigil at a window
ledge standing concealing his pale and failed face yet
hidden in the scriptures of conceit.
One declares his apparition binds him to this room
and no more will he open tired eyes with sacred muted
voices’ ringing in his ears for this is finally an hour of silence
with crippled fingers and vain breath that
restrains circles of sleep weary eyes.
Like festive midnight madness he will not lament
his funeral chamber nor distress in his dying
soul , vanquished for he will renounce suicide before
angels in his absent tomb.
A dying poet is composing his chants through the mist
and dying breath he watches like a nude in the mirror
of reflecting time with departed strength holding a clenched
fist while clutching his chest like a ravens talon piercing
his nakedness in silent pain.
Awakened to gaze upon the beauty of a face with
child like wonder sobbing of echoes with hollow sounds
as you rest your wings upon my pillow you leave my dreams
astonished as my skeletal face and frozen brain becomes my
final grave for my dream awakening from this nightmare and
feeling the morning suns warmth once again upon my naked soul.
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2010. All Rights Reserved.