Jazz thrums down a deserted night street,
oscillating with down and blue, giddy and glad beats
and snakes its way past the oily ebony rivers,
whose curvy body pulses with swooning beguile,
and with swarms of shiny black beetle shells.
The water creeps and crawls by the sleeping dead,
passing quiet houses, lulled by children’s dreams.
And the river glides by a dead corpse, and for he
she lets out a high pitched sough of dastardly melody.
Like Apollo, whose lyre draws every animal near;
the dead man facedown on the flagstones, once splayed all out,
jerked upward with a great cry, as if he endured a shock to the brain.
Like a flock of mind controlled sheep, they arose as Undead
their brains rotted, nails peeled, yet their hearts beat;
and they wafted about, gliding on rain slickened streets
with the grace of nosferatu and the morn’s fluid mists.
By the chime of the waves, they walked upon their high stilts,
eagerly approaching as rats squealed under their leather boots.
Ravens cawed above, lamenting for the city of death;
death and dying which spread like the Black Plague.
Come to me, the waters blathered hysterically, come children!
They dropped in, one by one, with no registration
of care on their pale drawn faces.
Clink, clink, clink, and down they go;
sitting like wishing pennies on the floor of a fountain.
Points: 4250
Reviews: 284
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