Quill Of The Shadows Chill

What lurks inside the shadows dark veins
Flowing in the dark recesses sketched tales?
Intrigue in overcast skeletal walking refrains
Creeping among dank recesses to no avail.

Hark thee spirit in poetic hallowed eyes reign
Chills of the midnight dance vibrating the quill.
Fingers scraping the vowels wailing veil’s braille
Frail fear prowling grave marks nailing coffin tails.

Forlorn - who are we crying among isolated prison drops
Drip drop tick tock quicksand grains gravitating gale
Bearing down quicksilver pool reflective penetrating drills
Ripples of a mind frozen in shards sharp sandstone face.

Shriek thee banshee demon consonants death grip bowels
From silken woven weaves of mellowed moods passion
Caress sore spots reaching the core vibration of wants power base
Bass of foghorn misting march bagpipe despondent winds.

Damp words reeling in the rain swollen rivers within pain
Depressions crater ring canvas moonscape sandstorm fashion
Bleak terrain - nude - stripped humanity in its Katrina bare bushes.
Oh, feel the flow of sailing caskets of human remains nightmares.

Hear ye, hear ye, the funeral march sad cadence
In the swallowing sorrows swollen hard upon heartbeats
Choking emotions in a political for profit Blackwater religion.
Playing the Taps …
Playing the Taps …
Tap
Tap
Ta … Ta …
Quill
Chill,
R.I.P.
Your heart out.

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David L. Young 07/20/08©
De-Terminated poet, somewhere in America not on company time