Visiting the cemetary of Pere Lachaise
My mind screams,
Cathedral thoughts and coliseum dreams,
tempered by white fire of the most extreme.
Wicked hues of golden purple streams,
wash over the barren and cold erected mausoleums,
Eternally dislocating their patrons freedom.
Ancient Kings' and Queens' fold,
sold in a morass of dark stellar cold.
Midnights gloom weaves shadowed doom on tales untold.
Chiseled in letters, stamped in bold.
Life and death separated by a bleak dash,
animated works turned to ash.
Composers, physicians, stoics,
No longer among
they are long gone.
Dusty, Dry, Breathless bones.
Unpacked there hearts with words.
Leaving no stone unturned,
questioning questions bound by earth.
Leaving sharp tipped answers draped in mirth.
No more didactic instruction nor
edification by virtuous percussion.
Now we work all the night long on the word lathe,
with insouciant faith,
welding a devotional, emotional denouement.....
© 2009 Michael Achilles
loua from Elsewhere, visiting Earth ~ the segregated community planet on August 16, 2009:
Nice word manner...
\Brenda Scully on August 15, 2009:
lot's of emotion in there take it easy now...... but do keep writing, I love your work...
I*n*v*i*c*t*u*s on August 15, 2009:
Nice.. I think he lives on!