a cento by dolan grey
when by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead,
till blues & sorrow song,
no fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
an anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--
of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,
runoff, pitch-black, from the rivers of Psalms,
a gleaming glassy ocean,
as silent as pictures on the wall.
but when the crowing syrens blare,
it's as if the rain
and the sky came down,
its guardian grasp on blood and brain.
the ghastly clouds of yonder skies
compare thus to your love;
torrents of your miseries,
rained on me from above.
a quiet akin to ruins--
the ghosts swarm.
the ghost that was myself--
it joined other spirits exhaled before dawn.