I Am Master of Nothing At All

I am but the messenger of my own
Delusions, teetering on this icy ledge So
close to the turmoil of sheer death.
Close behind me the Sentries arms laden with
Arms.

Clear before me the fires of an unforgiving Heaven
Full of fire, brimming
with molten stone.

At the edge of the Hudson River there are places where
Even in this late day and year no foot has touched, no
Yarn been spun.

Not white nor red nor black.
I am the mere messenger of my so called dreams.
The shabby character from a forgotten drama
Phantoms, the memories are dark phantoms.

Close at hand is the fall of time precariously seated in
At universal distance like the space that is our
Final explanation of God.

30 Years Ago - February 1968

Paris, the snow fell
the lights on Montmartre
were sparkling and
the headline said
Boris Karloff was dead.

Children he read their
stories, award winning
monster of their
parents' early dreams.

Voice so smoothe, he
meant friend, he meant
the smoke the drink
were good.
Karloff dead and
the Rue Morgue full
of life. Paris.
It snowed. The
Monster was dead.