New Occidental Poetry

Pietro’s Castle

On the night we went to Pietro’s Castle,
the will-o-wisp on the lake
asked for souls to take.
We’d gladly give ours now.

However, we were then recusants—
our knees unbended
though our bellies distended
through no fault of our own.

In madness not quite love,
we chased their yellow eyes
all the while under the guise
of mocking their martyrdom.

The saints said nothing to us sinners,
but we knew in a diseased way
that the little death lay
just beyond the hills.

I’ve since seen it as a suicide garden,
yet few memories remain so awake,
so eager to make
this old heart collapse with melancholy.

We both left too much at the castle gate.
Some that cannot be discussed;
others are encrusted
with unmentionable feelings.

I wonder if you feel the same.
Can you recall that night in the fall
when insanity conquered all
and we just lived?

-Benjamin Welton

Arthur PowellBenjamin Welton