The ashen moon enshrouds its face in veils of mist.
The street-lamps cast a feeble glow like spirits lost.
Within a little room, a melancholy tryst:
The sounds of Wagner proffer a nocturnal toast.
The street-lamps cast a feeble glow like spirits lost.
Within his web, a hapless spider writhes in vain.
The sounds of Wagner proffer a nocturnal toast.
The poet contemplates the answer for his pain.
Within his web, a hapless spider writhes in vain.
A virgin razor beckons from its cardboard sheath.
The poet contemplates the answer for his pain.
The words of Whitman whisper "Death. Death. Death. Death. Death."
A virgin razor beckons from its cardboard sheath.
Isolde's Liebestod swells to a languid close.
The words of Whitman whisper "Death. Death. Death. Death. Death."
The linens, leechlike, suck the crimson breast of woes.
Isolde's Liebestod swells to a languid close.
Within a little room, a melancholy tryst:
The linens bloat dark crimson with the stain of woes.
The ashen moon enshrouds its face in veils of mist.
George Chadderdon © 2000