I am a ragged bone-man. 
Sadness is my skin; 
draped like a shroud 
threaded with sin. 
A one time sage, 
a prophet in a mire.
A scorching past behind my eyes
preaching infernal lace desire.
A gaunt and needling man was I, 
before the cotton fields. 
A tormented crack of whip on
flesh
is what this creature wields

Every time the trumpet sounds, 

the tumult in the clouds, 

has left me here, 

upon the ground

deaf in tattered shrouds.

I wake below a jaundiced sky, 

where murderous crows rejoice

and watch them flap their hoary wings

and bray immortal voice.

Slinking through the shadows, I, 

slip below the ground, 

as if in each darkling plain 

an ancient gate is found.

To ward off light and feathers bright,

I must hide away, 

and wait until the last hurrah!

The human's judgement day.

Descending angels show their place

with blank and interstellar face

bring their trumpets to the Earth.

Then I shall feast on all that light

as I place them in my hearth!

Every night I go into my study and

put an old record on the turn table.

When the needle touches down and starts scratching the vinyl

it tears the air,

which parts, and folds open like a tent flap in the cosmos.

Out stumbles a parade of ghosts.

All generations past and present.

Faint like the characters behind static

in an old rabbit-eared television.

A faded and flickering soiree and,

I find myself dancing with skeletons in the dark.