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 life rushing by in the whirl alone silent warrior in a fantasy world he cried for night but night could not come 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 womb1