In Absinthia
by
Vincent Moore
Copyright
© 2011 Vincent
Moore.
Smashwords
Edition
Cover Design: SilverGenes
Media.
Notice
of Rights
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Notice
of Liability
The author wishes to make it clear that any
character named, described or otherwise referred to in any of the
writings contained herein is purely fictional and does not represent
any real person either living or dead.
Dedication
This collection of poetry is dedicated to all those writers who sit night after night, pen in hand, at the service of the muse.
Thank you to all my friends at HubPages who encouraged me with their friendship and kindness.
A
Butterfly Dream
Dreams
of a Poet
The
Pendulum Swings
Libertine
at the Ole Pall Mall
Bring
in the Clowns
The
Black Rose
My
Mask of Madness
My
Window
The
Departed
In
Search Of Me
Exhausted
Quill
Somewhere
In Time
My
Reflections
Beyond
the Door
Nostradamus
These
Fortress Walls
A
Toast to Thee
An
Old Man
Graveyard
of Lost Souls
Key
Bored
A Butterfly Dream
I
hear the rain dancing on my roof and know
it's
time for me to lay my pen to rest
and walk
the night streets of placid shades
of blue.
I
wrap a trench around my soul
with my fedora resting tipped
slightly
to the front to catch the rain that beats upon its
brim
and lick a droplet to feel its wetness
on my tongue.
I
step into the night to dream of capturing in flight,
the elusive
blue butterfly of the rainforest
and let it work its magic healing
power
on my wretched body
wracked
with pain and suffering.
Slowly,
I walk the quiet streets so dimly lit
by lights of misty grey,
feeling the warmth
of knowing who I am and what I was and
now
prepare to welcome death as it approaches
my front door.
Stepping
into a shelter, I pull a crumpled weed
from my vested pocket and
find a match
to strike and light and suck the smoke
so deep as
I cough it to my lungs and feel
relief for a pittance
in time.
Walking
and thinking of the yesterdays
where two hearts beat as one, my
Irish lass
of long ago danced with me in meadows
of sweet
smelling musk touched by angels.
Trying to chase the eagle as it
flew,
with our loins in heat we lost the chase
and lay
ourselves down.
The
dark casts shadows on the boardwalk
and the rain dances in the
wind. While sliding
against a shivering moonlit night I see
my
reflection in the rain as misery takes me
back to better days when
writing was my life.
My hand slips, shaking into my trench to
palm
the whiskey flask and bring it to my lips.
I swig the fire it
provides to heat and take
away the chill from my bones,
wiping
my lips with the back of my hand
while staring out to sea.
The
lighthouse in the distance
with its beacon light so bright,
leads
mighty ships to safety as they struggle
in the pounding reefs
offshore.
Many a ship has found its grave
in the belly of the
deep,
while sailors' songs can still be heard
through the
crashing waves against the shore.
I know my life is ending now as
I walk
through rains and storm towards my door
of paled
blue.
The
air is soft as yesteryear
upon my cracked
and aged face,
where day is wearing late and dusk was so fine.
The
brazen Raven haunts me
with his feathered black inviting
wing,
soaring on the darkest wind
while perched under darkened
moon.
Listen to the wind it whispers to me.
Half
the world is on the wind of change.
If all we know of Heaven is
its inviting gate
then all we need know is Hell's departure
where
the good, bad and the worst meet resigned
beneath the raging
darkened skies.
The
wind shouts my love for thee
for the wild ride of the night
whilst
I laugh aloud for love of you.
Beneath my feet lies Highland
heather
abounding from hot housed dew.
Falling
and rejoicing
in the stinging gales of thrills,
I leap from
star to star until I see
its face, the wind in all its
opulent
splendour.
I
will sit in my proud tower
in my town awaiting death,
while
swelling tide tells the wind
to tame or die, yet heave them to and
fro
like drunken seagulls flying at will over
the blanket of
stormy seas.
The
journey of my soul listens
to the wind of change while I sit
up
watching the rising sun and words
fall far below, swimming
upon the devil's lake
of stench and sulphuric flame.
I welcome
the wind, its sweet sound
and feel upon my soul.
Let
it whisk me from my place and take me,
like a feather floats and
glides along the path
to its eventual destination,
to a poet's
desk under guided hand
to ink his last day and song of Heaven's
praise
and meet his maker
down below.
Behind
the castle walls
in
dungeon far below,
the cries and shrills
of tortured souls
await
the pit
of pendulum’s steel.
They came as
guests,
wined and dined
and fattened
for the kill,
not
knowing
what awaited them -
execution
by the mighty swing
of
pendulum's steel.