Pome*: Libra and The Ides of March



Rest in peace,
Prince of Darkness and King of Hell.

To the ends of the alphabet,
thanks for all the poetry,
with love everlasting
from the moon who shines
to show all you missed
and could have had so easily
for the giving and the asking --
a little honor, respect and care.
Lucifer, the Angel of Light
and your Queen of the Night,
how beautiful you were once
before you were broken.

Bring in that wild white stallion, boys,
with his pale rider
and tether them to the casket
of what was and isn't
and will never be again
in a lost, cruel world
of children, women and men.
Sweep the dung aside
to make way for their passing.
Tears for fears in deed
wending through the killing fields
of dead valley and its
seasonal affective disorders.

We'd have wanted none of this to happen,
but you insisted and it did,
horrors beyond imagining
for you to claim and swill,
the toxic brew of your stills,
while we keep vigil
over the grave.

Now you're a lone traveler,
confused by our bemusement
as you meet your Maker
for a final, mighty reckoning
and we drive
your satanic hearses
into the dust
of long-heard verses
you buried for awhile.


Maybe on your next cycle
you'll have learned better.
You got what you gave
by the painful pail-full.
Rasputin isn't gone.
He's transmorgrified
and glad you laughed
before you died,
leaving just this dark shadow
that yet crypts and cries
its piteous and forlorn goodbyes.

Justice.  An eye for an eye
just like The Good Book
says and promises
for those who stray
from that narrow way and gate,
closed to the unwashed
and unclean.
No one can save you now
from your destinies
and bad night.

Les miserables,
and their endlessly black plight.