In house of mirrors, where shining bloody knives
Kaleidoscopically dance on eyes edge
Swift-bearing madness while women’s sharp kiss
Threatens to deaden high madness’s ledge
The bearer of death, the holder of knife
Stands keenly intent on murder within,
With blood perfuming, raining, his like-life
Mouth-piece, in, (ugh), within, a wooden coffin.
Of all within the thin, thin shell of man’s
Veneer of city, house, and manners’ ways
There’s naught that saves from such a demon bland,
The mold of his body in his own grave.
There’s naught of man’s, but God, the God Who died
Gives life by blood; as Bread He does reside.
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9 comments:
Hmmmm... I wasn't expecting a poem....
That's a very good poem!
AGP: I asked you specifically if you wanted me to extend my Dracula article 'In verse' which means in poetic form.
Thank you, Carmen!
Oh. Right. I should have guessed.
wow! that's a fascinating poem, you suggested to AGP that there might be more to it if there is i'd love to see it!
Nice picture. :-)
This is the "more" I was suggesting, though I could easily write another poem if you want me to.
really!? i'd love to see more of your poetry!
thanks! that means alot coming from a Greek Philosopher :)
Most of my poetry so far is on Disciples of Diotima, but I can write on here if it pleases you.
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