Tall Figure

A poem I decided to write for an inspiring song called The Tall Man. It's a melancholy piano piece. So of course, this poem must be as well.

The Tall Figure

 

He looms over the dead children

Like a priest sharing his sermon at a bible reading

Chickenscratching at the blackboard funeral with his talons

His downtrodden flowers and rippling feathers

The angel wings he decorates the house of God in

The bloodstained-glass windows pointed and sharp

The steeple squirming through the clouds like a worm

Winding spirals of the edifice of cemeteries

Translucent hallucinations of fugitive pugilist crucifix

Crowned proudly disembowelling the fools’ taboo

I wonder how he sleeps at night under my bed

In the basement cellar

In my grave

The promised landmine alone

Altar-native to Salem

Heaven gave me a cutthroat of the prophets

I don’t go up to the attic anymore

There’s nowhere left to hide

There is nothing I can give him

He wants to take back the life he never had

I worked and traded blows

Until the blood ran cold

And only then could I truly see

My monster had no teeth

But he smiled at me, his lips smeared in song

Because there was nothing left to laugh at

To grieve for a bad joke

Reading between the punchlines

Wearing the crossfire on his body

A queen of hearts on his sleeves

Clothed in ragtag bands orchestrating natural key

Struck a chord in me, though it did not have a pulse

Every organ, pastor, future at the end of the lifeline

Strung together like a symphony of scars

Hanging by a thread, stitched back together

Forming notes in a movement’s half-step beat

Like a puppet drooping in the shadows

As I plucked at the heartstrings of the harpsichord

This instrument of death

And bowed my figurehead in prayer

To the tallest towers of greed in the graveyard

He is still waiting for an encore to the crescendo of silence

An out of tune ballad looping like that elegy was his forte

Toned bodies balancing waltzes’ scaled in unison with the tempo of pitchforks

Trying to reach the attic

In the basement cellar

In my grave

Somewhere under my bed

The tall figure bent out of shape by the hands of time

Will never play by ear again

Author's Note

I promise I read every single review, and I generally will reply to them. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be happy to hear anything you feel needs sharing. Whenever you write on my shortcomings or breakthroughs, or the themes of my poems, or share ideas and friendly criticism, it decides my next poem to an extent. I will listen, learn and be thankful. And 99% of the time, you'll get a reply unless you're trolling me.