Monday, April 03, 2006

A Poem Draft

Fragmentary Hauntings

this river of blood stout men have shed
it flows in waves above the dead
bone-filled graves bereft of breath
forgotten through the blight of death
the bones are bleached where souls were bled

the guilty rise; in tongues they speak
of death who walks the earth to reap
and hunt our souls with bow of yew
that cannot fail and flies so true
it hits the victim that it seeks

forth the arrow -- straight it flew
to snip the flower in its dew
to strike strong men as still as stones
they fall and vanish with ghastly moans
they fail and fall and die anew

silver queen on a silver throne
made of bleached and burning bone
singing songs among the dead
of star-crossed men to demons wed
the specters hear, but weep alone

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