Opus 1862
Still the stars may be, mocking brightly, grinning
inanely--Death's their due--dwarf or a hole,
it matters not. For the cosmos hates, soul
sold unto the demon entropy, winning
cooling skies and freezing stars, and the dust
supplanting all. For Death, Death is a jester
despairing, a bright soul whose death infests her
family with chest-cracking despair. Lust
is as vain as life, dies with time and turning
tide--come and be damned, my boy! Here's the bony
dice--throw and be damned! We lay on the stony
ground, and dream all's well, that Hell's not returning,
but Death--demon, daimon, dragon--remains
Charon upon the wan river of its drains.
17/05/05
*Author of
Strange Gardens [
www.lulu.com]
*Editor of
Calenture: a Journal of Studies in Speculative Verse [
calenture.fcpages.com]
*Visit my homepage: [
voleboy.freewebpages.org]