The Conqueror Worm by Edgar Allan Poe

O what a galous night
in these lonesome latter years
where the winged angels
veiled, drowned in tears
sit here in the theater
hoping to see
a wondrous play
filled with hopes
and fears
and orchestrations
breathing fitfully
the celestial music
of spheres.

Mimicking the Divine
with mutters
and mumbles
flying this way and that
like mere puppets
and changing scenes
flapping Condor wings
what invisibility.

What a motley crew
this dramatic duo
I shall never forget it
with the Phantom
being ever chased
by the crowd
which could not
seize it
round and round
in a circle
always returning
to the same spot
such Madness,
the ghastly
horror of that
godforsaken plot.

And then in the midst
of it all
that crawling form
that blood-red thing
in the midst of
the scene
with mortal pangings
miming the meaning
of being the food
for the angel
who sobs
with venomous fangs

The lights go out
it’s all over
the funeral
the rushing storm
angels won
unveil them
yes this is the
tragedy of Man
the Conquering Worm.