For
el Bujo
happy were nights when trees shadowed by moonlight
gave no residence to ghostly visitors
Joyous moments when passing from waking into
Orpheus's gentle embrace
a pestilence of ghosts
did not
plague
Those moments were longed for...
yearned for...
not unlike an
addict searching
for their daily
fix
Terrible were nights
when dead perched in skeletal trees
shrieking their derision
harpy scorn
These were the nights when
el Brujo would have such long
discourses
As to make
parliamentarians weep
Their wants
desires
cry's pitiful
for one more moment
of life's extension could not
would not suffice
Yet they would flock
seeking absolution for past sins.
angry at living souls for living
when they
could no
longer
As nights would wind
coil relentlessly forward
they would
eventually drift
drift towards
some forgotten abattoir
to hide once more from living truth
el Brujo would hasten stumbling steps
with poems rare
and poets long mouldering in graves
full of magic powers
Of poems capturing moments
illusive
rare
sating their desires
No matter the eve's wearing presence
upon his brow
thought-worn lines would ease
as he read Cervantes
To be a gallant
about a lady's honor
was a fine
fiction
In daily repose
regain strength
for another eve of
relentless bickering
el Brujo rested his soul in
Sancho Panza's care
-Fin-
DS Baker
*For Myrlindo. You inspired this piece.
DS Baker
el Bujo
happy were nights when trees shadowed by moonlight
gave no residence to ghostly visitors
Joyous moments when passing from waking into
Orpheus's gentle embrace
a pestilence of ghosts
did not
plague
Those moments were longed for...
yearned for...
not unlike an
addict searching
for their daily
fix
Terrible were nights
when dead perched in skeletal trees
shrieking their derision
harpy scorn
These were the nights when
el Brujo would have such long
discourses
As to make
parliamentarians weep
Their wants
desires
cry's pitiful
for one more moment
of life's extension could not
would not suffice
Yet they would flock
seeking absolution for past sins.
angry at living souls for living
when they
could no
longer
As nights would wind
coil relentlessly forward
they would
eventually drift
drift towards
some forgotten abattoir
to hide once more from living truth
el Brujo would hasten stumbling steps
with poems rare
and poets long mouldering in graves
full of magic powers
Of poems capturing moments
illusive
rare
sating their desires
No matter the eve's wearing presence
upon his brow
thought-worn lines would ease
as he read Cervantes
To be a gallant
about a lady's honor
was a fine
fiction
In daily repose
regain strength
for another eve of
relentless bickering
el Brujo rested his soul in
Sancho Panza's care
-Fin-
DS Baker
*For Myrlindo. You inspired this piece.
DS Baker
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