Marko Brack
New York Nightfall
Anon, my crony’s eccentricest dreamin‘,
far off constructed upon wary seemin‘
–but! now behold his most ancient of lores!
For these’re stalked by the giddiest prancin‘,
the nobles and dukes and the lights–all romancin‘,
and girdled amongst us–the gathering whores.
This balladic palace’s glimmering within,
arisin‘ from marble–a quivering sin
–for reasons art buried too deep underneath!
Shapes and contours, even rifts’re now formin‘,
as all these cyprians step in as if swarmin‘,
and some may be draped by a revilin‘ wreath.
Scarcely concealed, and appallingly pallid
sure treats art these creatures to some o so valid
–since wondrous medicine hast brought them to fall!
Yet all these flames, that flicker and flash,
hath dulled–so I swear!–my senses, thus rash
became my decisions, my posture stood tall.
O lo! it’s yonder–mine eye’s bein‘ drained
by much such a face, that looks if restrained
–vainly I marvelled how it was embellished.
Though many her eyes drowsy gleam left me pond’ring
of what twisted feature those pills she was squand’ring,
there art such moments that should be relished.
Ghastly, though placid, she dared me encroach,
this wanderin‘ masque of a face to approach
–beguiledly I wanton admit here this deed–,
and the fires exhaust, as if in my favor,
so let me stress, I’m not! one to waver,
and ultimately, I succumb to my greed.
© cascardian | Mar. 2004
The Restless
In haze was raised our inner sense
since all these years had passed.
All turmoils‘ fancies grew but dense,
and passed away at last.
Yet mourning scored the somber sky,
and I may since admire
that all mankind was creeping nigh
this slowly dying fire.
This land did then but glance and leer,
and clinged to its repose;
in wintry cloaks, no less sincere,
and night-veiled to its toes.
I leant upon a hawthorn stalk
when marvel grew abound.
And Winter’s tykes seemed but to talk
in stormy seas of sound.
The deadwood smirked upon our rove
as if we were its prey.
It knew, hereon this misty grove
may sleep our dying day.
At once, the branches seemed to leap
while snaking to and fro.
We fear, the dead nigh may not sleep
and bear their seed to sow.
And I do sense a greater plot
in each we leave behind.
I see, their corpses never rot,
to dream away our kind.
I leant upon this hawthorn stalk,
and felt its burning sound.
I know, the dead, they may not walk,
yet they are still around.
© cascardian | Nov. 2004
