THE DRUNKARD
THIS black tower drinks the blinding light.
Strange windows livid white,
Tremble beneath the curse of God.
Yet living weeds still nod
To the huge sun, a devil’s eye
That tracks the souls that die.
The clock beats like the heart of Doom
Within the narrow room;
And whispering with some ghastly air
The curtains float and stir.
But still she never speaks a word;
I think she hardly heard
When I with reeling footsteps came
And softly spoke her name.
But yet she does not sleep. Her eyes
Still watch in wide surprise
The thirsty knife that pitied her;
But those lids never stir,