Stood there leaning to the city moon,

casting silhouettes tall to grip her white rooms

the black-clad voyeur in his black-clad masque

in the serpentine sun of tragedy basked



Stood there cursing at the soul-dead mass

with their fabled illusions, the vain dreams that passed

splinters of a life rushing by in the whirl

a lone, silent warrior in a fantasy world



He cried for night / but night could not come

so, swept in the shroud of Misanthropia he went away

and fed the empty galleries

with the artifacts of the black rain

sunken into the shadows with a dry, sardonic smile



He made the footprints a part of his heart

to rouse a sacred confrontation



Stood there carving on the monument to lies

digging of the earth, making friends with the soil

as the all-mother rises and bares her bleeding thighs

he disappears into her cold, icy womb