unstring your lyres and break the flutes set the drums aside silence now your music for the poet, he has died listen not to muses nor to their soulful cries all their songs dead on the breeze now that the poet died.
banish not my dreams of thee nor my thoughts deny for in my deep imaginings the two of us do lie and take as prompt my reveries that in the night do rise throughout the darkness ’til the dawn opens both of our eyes
under red skies gather crows their parliament of darkness grows the twilight’s silence is disturbed and o’er the land their cries are heard to testify on man’s disdain for a tainted world in pain and hold to recompense his guilt the scarred and blackened empires built.
Coptic Christ white jasmine scented halo made from smoking dreams through broken windows shattered light of heaven serenaded streams into a garden built and broken in the years from whence we were beyond a gate which no one closes we looked on ancient roses there
I set my red sails ‘fore no wind in waters black with oil and calm to a sea of silent monsters, blind I was to the depths of harm that dwelt below the mirror’s face primeval nightmares, eons old which slither silver from a place of bloody ends, infernal cold. Crimson masted tattered ghosts drifted ‘ward me doldrum slow and empty faces formed the host leading me where, I do not know then suddenly the water’s turned the surface world around my keel salt and pitch my life’s breath burned and in that wave, death’s face… …revealed