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The Booklouse King by Threetails
A broken bust of Chaucer, A great marbled head
Spills white crumbs lewdly On books unread,
Where nevermore A foot shall tread,
Where ever more lay thoughts undead.
The King of the Booklice Has decreed,
Upon Ulysses he shall feed
A supper song to fill his need!
Come cricket, trill upon thy reed!
But none but silence greets his call,
For here within the musty hall,
The Booklouse King is lord of all,
His kingdom and his funeral pall!
And mold and mildew shall consume
Each page contained within the room
The royal corpse, in blue-green plumed
Now feeds the spores of silent doom.
Just a short poem written some years ago when my ability to write was severely compromised by anxiety and depression.
A lonely booklouse pines away in an old, abandoned library.
Stylistically inspired by (who else?) Poe.
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