Ink for the Blind, or Did You Ever See the Devil, Uncle Joe?

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Ink for the Blind

I am the last one left in the garden.
Gone is the dragon. Gone is the apple of discord.
Gone are the daughters of Nyx,
the Hesperian nymphs who in dusk would change into liquid
camphor-oozing trees and sing French arias
in the winds.
Gone.

To the shadowed lakes and darkened groves.
To the Valley of Two-headed Calves where a dwarf
transports
Himmler’s brain and the staff of Moses
to the halls of Dis.

I am the last one left in this garden.
Left to my reflection in the goldfish pond. Left with a flame
lily for a shield, a pot of ink for the blind
and no music.
Left to serve and knowing not why.
(To know is not to know).

I am the last one left in the garden.
Forsaken by the god of the dance of the blood,
by red-gold autumn
and the beautiful charlatans of my youth.

Abandoned
to these old tired forms
that do little more than groan and fight off apathy.
They are dying, and the tragedy gnaws my heart,
but in their death I can sense the breath of wild magic,
of upward,
outward release and wheeling dark fires.

The vision in the inward eye of the unseen serpent.

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