Tuesday, February 11, 2020

on navigating the bogs of the dying

Take the hazy photographs down with you when you go
Line the rooms you find, the tombs, where voices ebb and flow
And decorate the sumptuous cakes and treats they spread upon
Sweating table top, the putrid slop, to eyes on which they fawn.

It is sickly, it is sweetly, it is decadent, this tune
Music lightly, young and spritely, heavy painted and perfumed
Cast your glances, risk your chances, cast the sweaty dice again
Looking quickly to the others lest they deviantly win.

The wisdom of the ages, bought with money, crisp and bright
Speaks of notions, deep devotions, foreign essences, a blight
On dais dim, a din, a tune that speaks the elegant, divine
"Look!  Enticement of these vices , are all theirs, they are not mine."

The hollow feast, the rancid beast, the emptiest succour
Fill their belly, drain the well and dip a greedy hand once more
Wrap a cloak of smoke and soak their deeds in virtue pure
Engulfing aura, pour a little more, this stain'ed cure

Some little lies, gentlest goodbys, a scene for to maintain
A dusty stage, a rage, apoplectic acid rain
Veiled and frantic antics aimed to halt at any cost
Lest the set be met with light of day and then be lost

So entering this oddly placed theatre of macabre
Walk thou softly, look aloft, ye, do not trust to vision, Love
For demons there, are clinging there, and they do not concern
With hearts a'beat, with wondering feet, with what their fire burns

Do not touch these hallowed trinkets, do not whisper words of doubt
Brace your shoulders, look not bolder, though you're in, you are without
So'f by the grace of God you trod, you plod, you tread to yonder shore
Cast off the dust, the rust, disgust, walk on and dwell on this no more.

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