| Worming through the mark
|
| Of Ezekiel and Mark
|
| Through the chapters of Honorius
|
| Gilles, as in a trance
|
| Screwed the pages up and danced
|
| Courting something vainly glorious
|
| He walked he gravest night
|
| That decrepit final juncture
|
| Of doom and negativity
|
| Reeking of death
|
| And the gloom of Stygian light
|
| When suddenly, the faintest whisper!
|
| A curtain opened in a painted vista
|
| Moonbeams swept into his dream…
|
| Balsamic and anathema
|
| Balsamic and anathema
|
| Prelati full of stars
|
| Magical, ecstatic stars
|
| That sparkled, no debacle sought to douse
|
| His fiery omnipresence
|
| Hissed at heaven, evanescent
|
| He was there to thwart the burning of his Faust
|
| The gates were prised, the phantom horses
|
| Snorted, restless to be gone
|
| With enchantment’s eyes upon the door, he cried-
|
| 'Come with me now! |
| '
|
| Gilles balked, the thought of life
|
| Accused and pursued
|
| And overridden by morbidity
|
| Saddened his breath
|
| For those destined for his knife
|
| Then suddenly — the strangest feeling
|
| One that left the angels reeling
|
| Atonement crept into his midst
|
| Balsamic and anathema
|
| Balsamic and anathema
|
| Prelati, full of stars
|
| This abductor of his heart
|
| Promised him horizons free of pain
|
| But all the grand designs
|
| Magic sings and midnight wines
|
| In the dream-world couldn’t hope to swerve his aim
|
| He would stay and face his slayers
|
| Cardinals and courtroom players
|
| Whilst Prelati must now flee before
|
| The pure and azure dawn…
|
| The gates were wide, the phantom horses
|
| Snorted, restless to be gone
|
| With enchantment’s eyes upon the door
|
| Once more he cried
|
| 'Come with me now! |
| '
|
| Prelati full of stars
|
| Tried to pull him from the dance
|
| Summoning his Barron to perform
|
| But as the Demon rose
|
| In sweet miracles of prose
|
| And propaganda, came a proper bible storm
|
| Lightning — grinning, froze
|
| On this murder-site of crows
|
| And from the scattered ashes stepped a sylph
|
| The maiden Joan of Arc
|
| Crept more beautiful and dark
|
| A paradise, a cradle free of filth
|
| She was chaste beyond all graces
|
| The face of faith illuminated
|
| More precious than Prelati’s spell
|
| A Goddess in a dream…
|
| And trembling in her arm
|
| Her eyes a thousand golden psalms
|
| That glittered as on Christmas night
|
| He wept like Hallowe’en
|
| He held the scene, the poignant gleam
|
| Of peace and great serenity
|
| Close to his heart, her parting kiss
|
| He slept to wake released in bliss |