Slaves

Late at night, I sat in my bed
Dreaming of a woman I could not have
When, as if a thunderbolt had struck my brain,
A madman in the street shouted:
We're all a bunch of fucking slaves!
I know the man well.
I was once him and he was once me.
The bells tolled.

None of us are free. 

Grave of a Minor Poet

Roaming eyeless amongst the graves,

Time’s serpent serenades the dead

With a song so sibilant

It saturates the silence with dread.

The moon pounds against the walls

Of its close-quartered tomb, demanding

To be blessed. (With its halo-corona,

It is already a saint.)

An enigmatic prophecy is being written in the stars.
The serpent stops and winds itself

Around a gravestone, upon which is written

No name, and no date. Only an epitaph

That reads: “He lived.”