The Absence of Virgil [I Write Poety]

Cold wind whispers echo
to a sky devoid of light and life.
Finding only the ears of the usual Specter
who wails as sirens outside windows
of what was or could have been.
Dreams acted out with stabbing emotion,
as if penned by a master of pot and quill
and performed by so skillful a troupe,
the lines of actuality bend and twist.
So too does this woeful visage warp
and contort with each “what if”
posed in prose and illustrated before them.

Watch the heaviest of hands
spare no rod and accept no recoil
for imaginary transgressions
fermented in the ire of it’s palm.
A hail storm of vitriol shaped as heart
sized rocks forcing the shore to beat
against it, even if the tide be not willing.
It’s rage commanded by Poseidon himself,
residing in the bottle of lost hope,
to pelt down on mare and foal leaving not
only itself to swell.

Listen to the sickly sweet strings
pluck tune after tune of adoration
and devotion as innocent as Eros.
Yet underneath the waggish tempo
lay a carnal craving so savage it
would bring Hedone to a rosy blush.
As would a spider spin a web of silk,
the notes progress to trap the neon angels.
Ripping them form the sky to turn them
frail and flush humans left quivering softly
like all strings do when the song is set to end.

See here and now oh Specter scorned,
of what you had to guide you.
A storm of delusion in guise of righteousness
and a pilgrim of lust who knocks on every door.
These are the windows in which you look out from.
In to those with sweeter tales never to be told.
A brittle soul left to sour between the legs
of all the seasons that came before.
Stalk here, in the starless night’s forever watch.
Cold wind whispers echo
to a heart devoid of light and life.
Finding only the tears of the usual Specter.