Silent City

Ill-fated crowd neath unchained cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves
which wash the stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (abundant, rife) surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall! Outside the City? Dunes!
They frame a frail forgotten tale, in carved primeval runes,
the symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews -
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise. 

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the bones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace auras now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons (alone, aligned) to haunt;
its flocks of jute, like fallen fruit, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups arcane
serve bitter brine as altar wine polluted by the rain.


              No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
              nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
              nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm. 



Six steeple towers, steel and stone - drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by -
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
(their dying flames relinquished claims to pendent pearls of wax)
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hov’ring, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in cursed crowds -
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.


              No breath will come 'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
              nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
              nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.



The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play �" 
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mock marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.

The sun-bleached bones of those who'd flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky �"
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where scattered seed once strayed
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a spade.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... 'twas truly all in vain.


              No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
              nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm -
              they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, and face it with aplomb,
              reflecting on the once upon before the neutron bomb.


EPILOGUE

Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
               

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Amazing poetry my friend.
"No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm "
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb."
The ending left a chill for the reader. You create place, city and situation. Thank you for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote