Under the cloudy moon,
and in the winter air,
across deserted streets
within the gaslight’s glare
a body lies forlorn,
and cold as like a stone.
Her lips without color;
her cheeks devoid of tone.
Lost within the midnight gale
drowning in the whelming waves
flutters still a tattered sail.
Life or death the ship still braves.
The harlot or the virgin maid,
—a zealot does not grow afraid—
His murder done, he’s on the run.
I feel some explanation necessary. I wrote the first stanza. I wrote the second stanza. They seemed to have nothing to do with each other whatsoever. I complained, but there seemed to be no one on hand to blame other than myself. I wrote the next stanza. The word “zealot” seemed nice, and seeing as nothing else about this poem made sense, I decided to use it. Some cohesion was achieved in the last line, and I decided not to jinx anything by trying to write more.
Tale Told 