Stood there leaning to the city moon,
casting silhouettes tall to grip her white rooms
the black-clad voyeur in his black-clad masque
in the serpentine sun of tragedy basked

Stood there cursing at the soul-dead mass
with their fabled illusions, the vain dreams that passed
splinters of a [bad word] by in the whirl
a lone, silent warrior in a fantasy world

He cried for night / but night could [bad word] so, swept in the shroud of Misanthropia he went away
and fed the empty galleries
with the artifacts of the black rain
sunken into the shadows with a dry, sardonic smile

He made the footprints a part of his heart
to rouse a sacred confrontation

Stood there carving on the monument to lies
digging of the earth, making friends with the soil
as the all-mother rises and bares her bleeding thighs
he disappears into her cold, icy womb