Voices in the dark
like Spring-heeled Jacks ,
run down a grimy slate roof
into a filthy gutter
filled with the tears of Saint Sophia .
☆
Dust , dirt , insects
and the remains of dead
forget-me-nots ,
the only images left to
a diseased mind .
☆
They run over and over
in geometric perfection ,
☆
a cataclysm of holes .
☆
☆
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                       2
No light for his lantern ,
hope forsaken gloom ,
then run down
tormented avenues
to an empty field ,
under the moon of
Mars in September  .
☆
Under blood red stars ,
without truth or meaning ,
the tower of his wasted
dreams ,
and the chimeras of his
past ,
gather now around
and begin casting lots .