I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

Home | A Pleonexic Urge | The Root Of Motion | When The Candles Are Out | Love Songs To The Dead | Titans And Turncoats | This Lovers' Life We Lead | Prayers To A Ghost | Your Opening Eyes Nigh | The Enterprise Of The New Routine | Orphans And Demagogues | Nocturnal Emissions | The Fortune Of Failure | Transcension Beneath The Bitter Sun | Watching The Furnace Fire | Adventures Of The Crimson Enigma | Memoirs Of A Mercenary | My True History | I Never Knew Him | Midnight Rambling | From The Silence

Plagued By Ghosts

I walk until the headstones fall from sight,
Though still those markers bind me to a seat
Of cold remorse; to words upon the face
Of one especial tomb, which plot is known
To none but those whose labour laid the stone.
And where our dirt-downed hands chipped marble tears,
So care-worn hearts composed the final word.
An elegy of unaccompanied grief,
A crown of thorns to mark the martyred brow,
A grave-drawn loved one lying cold a-bed.
His Devil’s cup was poisoned by a Saint.
A slave to some old pleonexic urge,
Who dreams aloud and from this dream proceeds
To rip the standard from its pole and drag
His kingdom with its own confetti’d flag.
This charlatanic master of such men
As those who live and die by other’s quotes;
Who cannot speak first-hand a phrase of truth
But coin for their own profit stolen words,
Has cornered for his hobby-horse a wolf.
I bend my steps toward the end of time,
To find along the way a tailor to
Supply his naked frame a suit of love.
This love’s the ruling monarch of a man
Though greed’s the traitor to his kingly scheme,
And any man who finds the wretched throne
Above which pendulums the sword, whose point’s
The finest measure of its mortal truth,
Can no more free himself from its cajole
Than Joseph in his colours from the well.
Plagued by these ghosts whose curses are sirens
Calling him home to be shrouded in sin,
The shadow of their ministry will fall
Upon a body burning in the light
Of Luna in her mephistolic mask.
But when the final kingdom’s come and gone,
This sacrifice still gospel in its fact,
I offer up an oath to wake the dead.
And following these promises I sleep,
Deaf to the sound of its shattering dawn.