The Basilisk

Sobbing slithers sinking slowly
Shifting shapes of silhouettes,
Subtle shapes, secure and lonely
Slit the air and its regrets.

Spoken language, syllables...
From a tongue forked in two slivers,
Silver sparks from the sharp fangs
Call some stranger here of thither.

Tether, line, spinning soundly,
Spiral wrapping someone's senses.
Like the voice of ill intent...
Phantom spoken from the fences.

Sadness, sorrow and the rest,
Play their music in his speech.
Silken stringed, this puppeteer
Draws his puppets in his reach.

Skin like scales, scarlet gleaming
Spew the smell of scented smoke.
Coiling coils around the body,
Closing life with simple stroke.

Swearing sentence like an oath,
Sacred place, enclosed...outspread.
Tempting guests in undergrowth,
Speaking stories...to the dead.

London Rain

London Rain

The sullen streets they mourn the noon
That's caught behind the Heaven's gloom.
And wept the cobbles are, from bearing
All those tears the clouds are wearing.

And all the trees are wet and Grey,
Lifeless watchers of the day,
They spy the sadness of the alleys,
Remnant of the hills and valleys.

And if a hope, might, weary rise
From this thought of sad demise,
Just an echo shall remain
Stifled in the London Rain.