On the podium the sternest of tyrants,
Yet a dead one’s manic puppet,
Claiming now inspired compliance.
His baton a thrashing rapier,
Forcing eyes to see the fire
In dots of black on tattered paper.
Tonight he plays a doppelgänger,
Clone of one who, rash and raging,
Forged the astral out of clangor.
He’s the maestro, bold retriever,
Channeler giving voice again
To him above the spheres and aether
Reprinted with permission of “Hellas,” Vol.5