Tuesday, 11 January 2011

Her stagnant memory hung limp, useless.
The truth is though despoiled, the alter stood.
Iconoclastic fire and cleansing flood,
Could not dent her myth, proved bloody, fruitless.

A slave! Once transfixed by her finesse,
Broke sylphlike chains yet did not understand,
That freedom weighs leaden on well versed hands!
More servile once loose and beyond redress.

So, did our boy escape from his bondage?
Well he prayed to new gods and got plastered.
But the cruel odds seemed insurmountable.
Until, with great strain he saw through her fey image,
To darker and more appealing masters.
Now he's weightless, the moral? All faith is doubtable!

No comments:

Post a Comment