deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Cupula
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 of blood
I wrote
Now a tonsured friar
with a screaming heart
feeling the pulse
of dark abbey's hard bread
All sweetness is not life
with darkness now overdue
as chills anoint me in my head
within 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 shave
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 of blood
I wrote
Now a tonsured friar
with a screaming heart
feeling the pulse
of dark abbey's hard bread
All sweetness is not life
with darkness now overdue
as chills anoint me in my head
within 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 shave
Published 15th Oct 2021
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