Sentinel

A dark brooding silence
Falls over the gate
A gasping dying creature
Lay accepting its fate

A sentinel stands guard
As if turned to stone
Sensing more than seeing
A being all alone

While time unfolds arms
A cold palor creeps in
Rigid anticipation relaxes
A macabre perversity begins

Fills the silver chalice
Sepulchre for consecration
A sort of a muted obsequious
Nod toward dim elation

Pray down at the netherworld
Pray at the voices heard
But all the sounds of flapping
Are not of light winged birds



Neils
about 1993 1994
*
transcribed this time
10:29 am
02/02/2005