Grey Nightingale
A Horror Poem
She exists within the in-between, seen and unseen,
Everyone and no one, both the moon and sun,
Angel and demon, host and parasite,
Lurking within the shadows of day and night.
Neither a ghost, nor body of flesh —
She sings her song of vengeance among
The mesh of flooded phallic bones broken
In whorehouses of more tortured souls awoken.
Indifferent, she is, unwavering, with blades of beasts
Wielded by her scarred hands tainted with memories
Of past pariahs forced to feel her pain as messiahs
Reveal cross-bearing vigilance of bleeding sight.
Lacerates with marks of fury casting white
Among their scary vision of a visionary’s light
To pass judgment on their iniquity, indiscriminately,
With swift, sound sentences spoken —
“I am scorn. I am pain. I am the cry of disdain among the throng
To hear the long, lasting words of the Grey Nightingale’s song.”
