Chronicles

And I was younger then
The pages white, the ink yet dried
Imprisoned images of fate
But now the curse has come upon me
'Neath the streetlamps, 'tween the chimes
An eerie shade and silence

His skin. A blasphemy
That I could never comprehend
In the mellow, evitable gloom
And the serpent of his tongue
Where all my chronicles were laid
To rest before the writing hand of sorrow

To whom I write these chronicles, I do not know
The ink now drips of blood
The shifting, trickling dance, unfolding
The vipers of his tongue now brush the pages
That I favored not
To touch the ground of this foul freedom

Long needles and narcotic sweets
Would I dream now of cruelties?
I would give everything to stillness!
A wolf's cry jewels the cryptic night
A maiden's moan of heat and fright
And take it all! And burn!
I do not want this