The sentinel

The 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 pallor creeps in
Rigid anticipation relaxes
A macabre perversity begins

Fills the silver chalice
Laying by its side
A deep dark red liquid
Sickeningly sweetly confides

Ghostly reference to ghastly
Sepulchers 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
*
transcribed this time
1:40 am
04/25/2005
*
transcribed this time
1:45 am
04/25/2005