And crossing love’s gulf into the
abyss a protector angel strove to see
the faint chaos from the air, that is,
from death’s other side, and instead
cursed us with his harpist’s strange
melody—a mix of escalating cubist
hooting with a chitin instrument like
a horn, though blown with exhalations
of a psychical kind, and the beatings
of an immeasurably large kettle drum
interspersed with the sound of
scraping—some colossal metal thing
being pulled from another.
Thanks for checking out my poem.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!
—Gabriel Muoio
$1.00
