The true iniquity lay in the silence of poesy
Her arms outstreched in the dark
Reaching out to nigromantia
Finding Oblivion
Not even the most ardent and heartbroken broker of words
Would access Calliope
Her tattered dress
Did not shimmer in the moon's borrowed light
A post-apocalypse devised against the heroic muse
Is a ghastly sight
Consider the plight
Of the scribe
Reduced to a shadow
Deprived of an underworld
Granted even to Virgil
In the darkest night
By the dim light
Of the camp fire
With the profile of unruly
Agrippa extending
Gently
Across the land's alt weight
