deepundergroundpoetry.com
Cupula Of The Dead
Coming alive at night touched by the sounds of the
Glockenspiel rising in the cupula of the dead.
The moon swallowing my breath lending me your throat
to watch the flow in blood I wrote.
Now a tonsured friar with a screaming heart feeling the
pulse of the dark abbey's hard bread and watered down ale.
All sweetness is not life, with darkness now overdue as
the chills anoint me in my head in a funk with
flashbacks in my mind's portmanteau.
My poetry becoming so blasé. At one time my pen was
sharper in the nave of my fellow poets wishing them a
closer shade.
Glockenspiel rising in the cupula of the dead.
The moon swallowing my breath lending me your throat
to watch the flow in blood I wrote.
Now a tonsured friar with a screaming heart feeling the
pulse of the dark abbey's hard bread and watered down ale.
All sweetness is not life, with darkness now overdue as
the chills anoint me in my head in a funk with
flashbacks in my mind's portmanteau.
My poetry becoming so blasé. At one time my pen was
sharper in the nave of my fellow poets wishing them a
closer shade.
Published 7th Oct 2021
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