Quoth the Quill

Quoth the tiny quill,
A telltale rogue,
Quoth he an iconoclast scourge
Roving a Rubicon,
Beheld they the scribe-
Draining squalid morass ink,
Their vestal thoughts flout,
A deformed unreality…
On dits pervade of the disparaged me.
But the scribe and the revered rose,
Undead in love’s scarlet,
Alive in its elegy,
Ravage thousand year’s reveries,
Quoth my quill now and rend,
Cohort’s trance inane…
For years, decades, centuries…

The Nocturnal Nymph

In stupor of wasted times,
Filthy ruminations past,
I shudder at the sight…
Eyes when shriek carmine…
Numinous silhouette of a nymph horrified,
Drifting sands turn lead and the footsteps slide,
Sweeps her dress darker than the chasms,
In my dreams truces she with devils,
Psychotic nightmares her fortress,
She howls a familiar name,
Lives off a conspiracy of the dismembered wombs…
…Or hers is a vile masquerade... (?)
Snatched as oceans calm,
Confiscated with my feelings deaf and dumb,
Slithering tears,
Creeping fears,
Scattered through a shattered conscience,
Senses whispers and whisperers thronged,
Seeking her wan lip’s livid curl,
I dream amok,
Suddenly the dark is oblivion,
My eyes wide open in the morn,
They’ll bleed again the coming night…