Black Sheep

You bleat some things are better off left in the dark— 
If so, why do they keep on moseying back, 
Dragging their white-washed tales behind them? 

Cryptic

Listen up—is it the leaves falling 
Or the sound of the wind dying down 
That wants to interrupt your sleep? 

First Quarter Lunatic on the Horizon

Good heavens! It looks like 
Another basket case— 

The man in the moon’s going 
To sink 

A hook shot hanging 
Upside down 

From the rim! 

Muse

This lovesick ravenous crone 
Impresses 
Her horny claws firmly 
In the soft mud 
Of our mind, tears 
At our bleeding 
Mushy heart, 
Snatches us away 
Like a harpy all the while 
Droning raucously sweet 
Nothings in our ear. 

The Last Village Threnodist

Oh woe unspeakable 
That has befallen us— 

She who kept alive for years 
That ancient dying art has left us 

With no one to better 
Charon’s bitter, 

Bitter song.