1821, A death in Rome Into the Eternal City by the Lateran Gate Short days are counted down to a grisly poetic fate
There was no Grand Tour past these seven hills Arteries fail, my sweats and chills
Full now this brimming bowl Echoed with hooves and Jaunting cars Castles built in Caskets of the Soul A turret tongue reaching from Towers to the Stars
A Maidens arms stretch on streets like veins Under Romes sweet winter rain The cruel flesh, the frothing mouth Shall weep and wait in Earthen broth
My finger traces ripples in a lake Though I cannot halt a wave or all it carries in its wake Words sink below the ink to plunge and grind the grit of rage To rip and scar our mortal page
Words fall like water, drenching Martyrs from the alter to the grave
Surgeons hands mock to reason out the Poets mind Time washed harsh through limestone sands That now an empty quill lies blind
Where is the Song of Italy Where is my Song of Rome Warmer than those bitter winds where once we called our home
More welcome is my Angel\'s command In departing one more child is born Life blood rattles in my burning throat As I gaze down upon Bernini\'s Boat
Carved in stone these lines shall float Writ in Water across death\'s moat By Cestius Pyramid in the evening shade In Springtime a young poet is laid...