Poetry by Micheal Fantina


If from this dark and icy night I take
The howling of the werewolf in his pain,
And heed it with the words of wizards slain,
Incanted at the marge of this black lake,
Then would I be healed? If this then would slake
Ravenous grief, which has for so long lain,
A deep gouged wound. If this then were the bane,
I would have it, though all Hell's legions wake.

Or if in dire need I'd slay the bull
Of Mithra, to perform some ritual,
And sleep with virgins in the house of Baal,
To weave a healing spell now soon, now late;
Nor is there any lust I'd fail to sate,
To staunch this grief of love, this grief of hate.


As if in a dream,
On a mile wide stream,
A full-rigged trireme,
Here fairly soars.
They move to a yell,
On the rise and swell,
The rowers propel
Three banks of oars.
Wind in their faces,
Each man retraces,
The olden places,
Forgotten times.
Here the sea's undisturbed,
And the crew unperturbed,
The ghost ship searches for fairer climes.


Near the ocean's roar,
Where the great rocs soar,
I sift my dark lore;
I work my will.
At the great moat's gate,
Built of polished slate,
Two guardians wait,
To rend and kill.
Up the spiral stair,
In the bronze-cast chair,
Now deep in my lair,
I chant a rune.
I conjure a singer,
Whose lost songs linger,
Till my heart is sad, sad as her tune.


Here where the past is,
Where first and last is,
I see how vast is
This chain sublime.
And so I reveal
My love, my ideal;
I pluck and so steal
Her out of Time.
There is no appeal
To my heart of steel,
My lust is my zeal,
My zeal steel bars.
She so ethereal,
Sad and sidereal...
We sail, adrift, in a sea of stars.


Willingly, chillingly she stalks the halls.
Pedantically, romantically, chalks the walls,
With runes as red as roses.

Creepily, sleepily, she eyes those runes.
So gaily, half feyly, she sings strange tunes
That hint of sad red roses.

Whitely, nightly, she pledges troths and faiths;
Foolishly, ghoulishly, she conjures wraiths,
Wraiths ashy as pale roses.

Madly, sadly, she fills the white-gold grail.
Cheerfully, tearfully, she brews dark ale
Distilled from long dead roses.

Eerily, wearily, she lifts the cup.
Quickly, thickly, she quaffs it, drinks it up,
A potion of crushed roses.

Gaspingly, raspingly, she sighs sad sighs.
So lightly, slightly she blinks blue eyes,
Tears like the dew on roses.

Dyingly, sighingly, this autumn air
Greedily, speedily, plays with her hair,
Red hair, red as red roses.

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