He had the look of voices inside his head;
They'd turn around, scream and terrorize;
They'd meld his hallucinatory thoughts with a red poison night
He'd howl at the moon, and the dripping moon would howl back:
I'm the poet, and you're my stolen, random verse.
Ha! Suffer you, those rhyming demons inside your head.
The moon was cruel, as most moons are.
Crazy, too. In his lunar talk
For that night, he with his look of voices bled by his own hand
Madly, the moon howled back, and stole another lonely verse
The Living Dead
18 hours ago