Crown-In-The-Muck

Nearby the moldering bridge and the stream that gushes from a fatal wound
The quiet town in its hallowed hollow, waking while still sleeping sound
Oblivious and dreaming, its people always dreaming
Of nothing and no one and nowhere worth speaking!
Oblivious and trivial, uncomplicated people.

But the sun shone forth one Sunday morning
And stretched its arms toward the evening
And a beam of light fell on the stone
The black eye sleeping in an open grave.

What is this thing? the crying of the throng
This ugly thing upon the ground that smokes and
Smolders with a dismal sound?

A nightmare, infidelity!
An offensive darkling augury!
Shun this horror!
Shun this omen fallen in the night!

Only one awake, and one that hates
His very life
A poet's soul
And a deeper sea
The stone bore waves into his mind
Seared his eyes and washed his hate away.