Urban Living is Terribly Bleak...

Through the metal that binds the river to lake,
Rests shore upon the arms that giants built
And with trembling hands does the cool hand shake
The tools of rising, stone-worked gait
That shook the earth with fire and black.
It was this time that I walked the serpent aisle,
Down the paths that led from park to church.

It was a labour too late in the low beats of love.

Past sentry, a pole, stark in fleeting yellow
Glides the death that is written, by evening
And with seeping sores, did the sore man bellow
The laugh of noxious, reaped, slumber
That parts the doorway of our gate.
To sleep goes silent, a lost weeping angel
An angel to sleep through silent murder.

And alone in night’s trembling vision, is lit the candle
That slows the passing from dream to terror.

When dawn breaks, red fire bleeds from the hills hunch-back
Dream-dipped in sunlight that pours from heaven
And with singing sirens the cool breeze breaks
About aging spirit, drowning in the lake
Mirrored to sky, by the light of day.
Pitted still by the gray wandering Sirens,
That wander, gray, in a private pleasure.

No curfew curdles the breaking light that saps the life from the day.

As the ceiling is lit, by center sun, burning
Chariot, red, driven by that celestial horse
The church bell shall ring, twelve times, cold yearning
For a saint, city bound by divine rapture
That awakes the worms from a cold grave.
And as twelve rings, one shall soon follow
One bell sounding, in the life-less meadow.