in a dream of nightmare proportions
where waking and sleep are reversed.
Funereal feelings. The bells wouldn't chime.
Ancient intrusions of weary old rhymes.
old man. He played one."
An absence of the morning sun.
Mists of gray to keep the light away.
Feel the moist and sodden atmosphere.
old man. He played two."
A graveyard caught in morning dew.
And still the tune played on within your head.
No energy to run away and hide.
old man. He played three."
The trinity in dark display.
The holy spirit turned its back.
and wandered off the cold stone path.
old man. He played four."
Death was knocking at the door.
The animals stampeded as the
forest fire claimed its destiny.
old man. He played five."
A chasm opens. Take the dive.
The nether worlds are still alive.
Kneel as the River Styx congeals.
old man. He played six."
The underworld would never mix
with ever dreams of brighter days
or nights of lovers' interplay.
old man. He played seven."
He sealed all the gates to heaven.
Hell-bent flames were melting every pore.
There really never was an other shore.
old man. He played eight."
The horses lined up at the gate.
In skeletal remains of better days.
Palsied movements were the newborn way.
old man. He played nine."
Hope and help were left behind.
Charity became a running sore.
Faith dissolved into the nevermore.
old man. He played ten.
Terror overtaking them.
For this old man had evil in his eyes.
He'd never grown heart wise.
turned into a repetition.
Unable to exact the retribution.
The blindfold never was removed.
The wooden steps had been worn smooth.
Each move a lurch.
Shine of midnight black become a mirror.
The painted metal only a veneer.
by the open grave.
You promised that you would be brave.
Feeling stuck within the lost and found.
Another casket lowered in the ground.
denied. A weeping sky.
Tears hidden just behind your eyes.
Something catching in your throat.
That old man was never wise at all...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2003 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .