The Wailing Way

(a poem of Necropolis)

In the lowlands,
across the bay,
There it stands,
The Wailing Way.

Two bright towers
splattered with sun,
clouded, enshrouded,
where no children run.

No children run,
and no children play.
Even the butterflies
have fluttered away.

When lovers die
arm in arm
peaceful, serene
doing no harm
they rest in the ground
such their reward
for death by time
instead of the sword.


When love is like metal,
with friction and sparks,
when kisses draw blood,
and caresses leave marks,
when fighting is rampant
and cruelty’s a game.
These boys who nurse hatred,
and girls who eat shame.
When ardor’s final touch
is macabre display.
They find themselves
on the wailing way.

One in each tower,
they are given a spot
to haunt and infest
to fester and rot.

First they swap stories
of loving abuse
Each I-fell-down-the-stairs
And every excuse.

He loves me, I know it!
They’re heard to expound,
but he just can’t show it…
at least not now
He’s a good man! a clean man!
and rather profound

She’ll stop in mid sentence
He isn’t around.

He’s in the next tower
and he’s searching for her.
If you listen, you hear him,
wailing away.
He’ll build a bright future
on the ruins of today.
No more drinking for him!
Not him, no sir.
From now on he’ll only
get high on her.

And her? She’ll do better.
No more burning the ham
She'll stop all her nagging
and making him mad.


There is no escape
Not for him or for her.
They’ve been separated,
for the good of the world.
They must be cleaved
with all their misgivings
or they’d fight, and they’d war
and make hell for the living.

So they lament their dark love
in sun splattered towers
They cry and they weep
it goes on for hours

And, the rest of us listen,
to this Stygian hive.
Forlorn over love
they couldn’t survive.

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