An Ode to Despair on Royal Street

The Clerk’s Lament

The shadows stretch across the Royal floor,
Where ancient spirits linger in the light.
I lock the heavy latch upon the door
To shield my spirit from the coming night.
The ghosts of New Orleans begin to creep,
While all the city sinks away to sleep.

My metal heart beats out a rhythmic toll,
A cold machine that labors in my chest.
It cannot warm the winter of my soul,
Nor grant the weary traveler any rest.
The secrets that we keep are chains of lead,
A heavy crown upon a tired head.

O dark despair, you are the only guest
Who never leaves the shop or Chartres Street.
You settle deep within the hollow breast,
In every sigh and every slow retreat.
The Bywater is far, the fog is thick,
And every ticking second makes me sick.

Zoe

I see you through the window’s dusty pane,
A shadow slumped beside the silent till.
You carry all the ghosts and all their pain,
While I am standing, watching, deathly still.
The spirit Clarice whispers in my ear,
Of ancient hungers and the things you fear.

I live a two-minute-quick walk away,
Yet miles of heavy silence lie between.
I see the things you simply cannot say,
The hidden gear-work of the vast machine.
Your mechanical heart may grind and grit,
But I am here to share the weight of it.

Come leave the shop and let the spirits stay,
The fog is rising off the river’s edge.
We’ll drink until the specters fade to gray,
And pull our weary souls back from the ledge.
Though darkness claims the Quarter for its own,
You never have to carry it alone.

Clarice

I watch you from the corners of the room,
A shadow cast where no one else can see.
I thrive within the silence and the gloom,
And wait for you to turn your gaze to me.
You feel the weight of every soul I’ve drained,
A heavy debt by which your life is chained.

Your heart is iron, clicking in the dark,
A clever toy that mimics life’s design.
But in your chest, I find no living spark,
Only the sorrow that I claim as mine.
You are the vessel for the grief I sow,
With nowhere left for your tired soul to go.

The girl on Chartres is the one I use,
To speak the words that you are forced to hear.
I am the heavy ghost you cannot lose,
The cold and ancient source of every fear.
I drink the light until the world is gray,
And leave you nothing at the end of day.

The Choice

The store is dim, the humid air is still,
Between the ghost and girl I stand alone.
One offers warmth and one a deadly chill,
A choice between the blood and ancient stone.
Does Zoe hold the key to mend my heart,
Or will the spirit tear my soul apart?

To choose the living or the hollow ghost,
Is more than just a simple choice of path.
One is the friend that I would cherish most,
The other is a well of ancient wrath.
My metal pulse is slow, the choice is vast—
To find a future or embrace the past.

I turn my back upon the spirit’s cold,
To seek the light that Zoe’s presence brings.
The ancient tales of Clarice grow too old,
While life within the shop still breathes and sings.
I’ll take the girl on Chartres, the hand I know,
And let the heavy, hollow specters go.

Betrayal

I saw the way you turned your head away,
To leave the ancient shadow in the dark.
You chose the heat of life and light of day,
And fanned within your chest a living spark.
Though ghosts may howl and rattle at the glass,
I’ll hold the door and let the phantoms pass.

The store grows quiet as the lanterns fade,
And Zoe turns her back upon the light.
The choice you thought you’d finally just made,
Is swallowed by the hunger of the night.
She leans into the void where Clarice stands,
With trembling breath and eager, seeking hands.

She drinks the cold and tastes the spirit’s kiss,
Preferring shadows to the world of men.
She finds a dark and terrifying bliss,
And whispers "come" again and yet again.
I watch them merge, the girl and ancient ghost,
As Zoe loves the one who haunts her most.

End

The metal gears within my chest are cold,
They grind with envy’s sharp and rusted tooth.
To watch the spirit take a greedy hold,
And steal from me her beauty and her youth.
I chose the girl, but she has chosen death,
To waste on hollow air her living breath.

The weight of ghosts is nothing to this pain,
A hollow ache no ticking can appease.
I stand alone within the Royal rain,
Brought lower than the spirits to my knees.
For though I shut the door and lock the gate,
I’m left outside to watch, and weep, and wait.

"Old friend," Philippe breathes low, a ghost of sigh,
"The living heart is cursed to crave the flame.
It's better to be cold than burn and die
For one who only whispers shadows names.
Let gears and iron be your quiet shield;
The deepest wounds are those that never yield."

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