La Morte

“Self-Seer II – Death and Man” by Egon Schiele

you mangler of moons
grim reaper of souls
stolen stars in your cowl
where your power
is held in the stench
of dead dreams
you leer ugly with
hourglass patience
through wrought-iron gates
nearly closed on the sun
sip the shadows
that wrinkle my air
with mistakes you devour
while waiting and counting
ill thoughts and poor
choices the bones
of your fingers collected
and pinned to my breast
like black badges
lascivious trophies
to hang from your scythe
when the gate latch drops
home with a chink
barely heard underneath
your foul breathy expulsion
of victory’s laughter

(originally posted January 2014)