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| Image courtesy of http://www.brujoinca.com/ |
"The El"
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
personal pestilence of ghosts
did not
plague me
Those moments were longed for
yearned for
making me an
addict searching
for my daily
fix
Terrible were nights
when my dead perched in skeletal trees
shrieking
their harpy scorn
These were the nights when
I, me, the el, senor Brujo
would have such long
discourses
As to make
parliamentarians weep
My dead and their wants
desires
cry's pitiful
for
one more moment
of life's extension
could not
would not
suffice
Yet they would flock to me
seeking
absolution
past sins
angry at living souls for living
when they
could not
Only to be sated with stories of the living
and the lived
To be forgotten their true fearful hell
As nights would wind
coil relentlessly forward
they would
eventually drift
Drift towards
some forgotten abattoir
after spending the night wanting, and needing
to hide once more from living truth
I, me, myself, the el, senor Brujo would hasten stumbling steps
with poems from poets
long mouldering
in their own
graves imbued with magical powers
of verse
sharing those captured moments
illusive rare
sating my dead's desires
Worry lines would ease
as I would read Cervantes
No matter the eve's wearing presence
upon my brow
To be a gallant
about a lady's honor
was a fine
fiction
In daily repose
regain strength
for another eve of
relentless bickering
I, me, the el, senor Brujo
resting my soul
in
Sancho Panza's care
Dreaming
until needed
once
more...
-Fin-
DS Baker.
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