Knocking At My Door

Knocking At My Door
© Surazeus
2017 03 08

If moonlight through the curtain slats glows dim,
and small forgotten raindrops on the glass
collect the twinkle of my eye I lost,
I will not let my dreams drip in the phone
as disconnected spheres of flashing hope,
for she would drink my fresh tears with delight,
and tell me she is drinking wine I gave,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

These halcyon hours of hapless discontent
I shelve with novels about forlorn heroes
no one bothered to compose while they smoked,
so I pretend to wear the doleful mask
that some great movie star once left behind
after they ate at last cafe in town,
yet no one applauds my most tragic scene,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

My serendipitous success was patched
by coarse but regular games to serrate
the endless days when I must ramify
exterminated projects to rebuild
this naked soul of mine exposed to wind
that blusters over jagged beach of skulls
where our wrecked homes are never pulverized,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

Through splintered door I try not to escape
our rugged relationship I repaired
more often than I care to quantify
so when I calculate frangible spirit
of hope that sprawls on dead leaves of brown grass
I know I never can align the rule
that recuses my role as neophyte,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

She sneered at my nefarious plan to play
the wicked king whose flagrant disregard
for deep-rooted conventions one should know
based on the prototype god we admire,
assigned as archetype when I was born,
but I refuse to manifest my soul
as specimen encased in paradigms,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

This tendency to drift on curving wind
beyond the rancid bayou of my heart
blinds broken signs that should identify
the secret bourn when I found my true soul
ensconced within the cavern where lust hums
clandestine spells about the furtive freak
who scratches my secret name on hard stone,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

Though patent blueprints of gardens I dream
are fractured by the lacerating plot
of mad conspiracies contrived by fools,
confounded by the protocol of truth,
I will proceed to strategize my trick
with obvious subterfuge that marks the scheme
which terminates my goal to rule the world,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

Since I must now design the recipe
of psychic mantras for objective goal
of fabricating truth from ancient seeds,
before my foes can subsidize deep roots
that could endow foundations of desire,
I now will broadcast words from serpent tongue
so I inseminate the fertile vale,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.