Mr. Scratch

A cloud of ebony

Wept into the room, yeah;

A blast force melody.

The door ripped in time, yeah.

My eyes fired open…

Hearts freeze at half-past three;

Go ask Mr. Scratch, yeah.

Shakin’ like a wet tree,

My room, it trembles, yeah.

My sigh’s tired boatman…

A six-foot-six-point-six

Dark, dark limb of a mess;

His sandals are from Styx

And he’s here to undress.

How can I keep composed?

Nubian, with his tricks,

The darkness of distress;

Animal furs transfix—

Blind form of fancy dress.

Is my worry exposed?

Fallen, oh, but what for?

Wings once of light now dark

With no name to abhor.

No word; a question mark.

There’s too many options.

Forty titles he swore;

So many to take hark.

Hebrew’s the tongue he wore;

Hebrew was his remark.

I ponder the options.

Voice booming or better;

Voice lower than his home—

Encyclical letter—

“Business” was not in Rome.

This is my conversion.

He’s suave, I’m the debtor;

His home the pleasure dome.

Black birds make it better;

He’s certainly no gnome.

I like this new version.