A dark dissembler,
signifying all but life,
seeps through the gloomy necropolis:
like the fog in which he grovels.
His dragging feet draw canyons in the frosted grass,
escape for people who,
thinking him an evil dealer,
already don their shoes.
Trembling tombs offer only dewy epitaphs,
a meagre heritage - for most was took by rain -
for the meagre next. In plastic, cloistered skulls
throb heart-lost brains
endeared to the grinning gnome who,
until the sunlike needlerays of morning
slowly masticate the ground,
will hide his blackfaced head.
Cynics of the world - dispel,
for this cloaked figure, in sombre tenes of rainbow skies,
will your panting body part
along a line of heretics, famed for Jesus Christ,
and reject your flowing head,
No amount of undulating lies will save a painted fool;
for he is I,
and I am you.
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