empty canvases turn to ghosts when night falls

if I prayed unto the pied piper—

would he paint a pretty picture—

with purples and plums and poison—

ghosts dance outside my window

spirits soar above sacred rivers—

staining the purity of crystal shores—

silently suffering for a choir song—

prophet! thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil—

ne'er a naïve nymph nor naiad—

nostalgic nocturnes rusts the night—

bow to noble necromancers—

condemn me

lust for love is lust for death—

lamentations for life lost—

a lily for the lord—

labyrinth.


If you understand this… I commend you. Especially since I've forgotten what I had in mind when writing it. Take from it what you will, but let it be known that it's purely an attempt to push out of writer's block. And yes, the thirdbold sentence is from Poe's 'The Raven.'