But No, He is Still Sleeping
He was sleeping under the curdled stars
And the summer air was thick.
The breath that seeped from his split
Lips buzzed in the reverberating air.
Thickly soaking the thermos-silk
Quilting
of spinster Summer.
His eyes were lidded heavily in shimmering,
Milky sweat.
Fairy lights hummed over his cheeks
And purple veins wrinkled the drooping sky.
The trees were humming, dazed.
Dizzying.
Philosophy.
Did those trees grow their creeping beards in now,
Or was it just last century.
Can you hear the evil muttering.
Is it Cthulhu.
but no, he is sleeping
He sleeps, drunk on heat liqueur.
His mind is shrouded in silkworm lace
And Lenore gave him nepenthe
Or the fairie lights dissolving through his skin
Are poling him across some ancient river.
Charon poles his ragged Souls
Across the river Styx.
There is no stink of death tonight.
Only the lavender smell of dying.
Red goggle-eyes and leather beaks
And broad-brimmed hats and crying.
Red Death has worn a golden Masque, and offered amontillado.
He wove a tale of ancient night and of brown Eldorado.
And the moon drips foul, skulking yellow molds.
What a new face she has in summer.
So old and sickening gold.
Just a few months back her dimpled cheeks
Were fresh as the blue-black leaves of holly.
Her light was cold and crisp; concrete.
Look how it drips the oozing moisture.
but no, he still is sleeping.