the incubus

the incubus

By Annie Fay

what is it you have, maestro of the pipe

your melancholy melody enchantment enough to rally the townspeople in your wake

the cacophonous symphony that meets my ears cannot be the same

which ensnares the foolish, exploits them to their own demise

your words of wisdom cannot be the deceitful spiel that shrouds your form like a cheap cloak

for even the townspeople, the witless mass i scorn and mock, are not fraught with enough

desires of self-immolation to set themselves aflame in the name of your fallacy

what is it you crave, liege of the sceptre

power furled in the twisted regime at the beck and call of your ruthless fist

the kingdom a slave to your profane desires, the bidding jesters to leap for your jibe

your manifesto, the Holy Writ, for the henchmen of your transgression

greening with envy at the rose-coloured optics of their subservience

the gentle cradle of your decree in the face of their wilful nescience 

ablaze with hatred so deep that i barely wish to save these morticians lining their own

caskets, but, how dare i scorn those who fall prey to the trap that was laid for me

what is it you do, maven of the shadows

obscured from the heedful stare of your coven, in the liberation of tenebrous nights - tell me

how your iniquity unfolds

your parables of dignity evade me, see, time has made me the only gnat fit to abscond your

duplicitous web

wings clipped, disfigured and subdued, but the opposition to your edict

and maybe i see, when accosted by your ill-famed fables, the impetus with which your myth

forever baffled 

to tell you would be to dig a hole for two, but i will forever fear that in the wrested reflection

of your every desecration, you will see my eyes, staring back at you