'Faith, her privates we. (An ode by poetry.)

Posted: April 5, 2009 in Poetry
Tags: ,

Be not deceived:
the lady’s orisons
doth not sleep about
her visage as
a coronet
of flowers, nor
a bonnet, nor a
dewy spring to flame:
her orisons,
bathed throughly with
thy sins, only be
remembered once:
when her eyes bear
sons of mourning;
but betray her
not as the soft
O of her lips
cries at dawn. For
upon her a light
hast stirred her muse.

Nor should thee think
she walks about verse
as golden stones
line country lanes,
as men trip near
graves and cradle
skulls, infinite
jest in death’s knell;
the only head prized
is her own, she
holds it high while
flitting amongst flora.
The fauna knight
her Goddess; she
humbly dwells ‘twixt
poplar willows,
charming troops of
dandelions,
weeding out camps
of alligators.

She lies about there,
lies about us,
lying all while
we prey on her;
as a cloud, peace
settles her root
but not our voice;
as a howl, love
nettles her skin
but not our call;
as a cry, pain
rustles her hems
but not our pins;
her privates we,
cradling the belt
of her Fortune,
faith cradling proud
to her hips — nay,
her lips welcome
our majesties.

Along pages, leaves
go we, go we;
between stiff spines
we dance unbound;
in margins lined
we cross and weave,
blank spaces bogged
and swamped in sound;
in penned black bursts
go she and we,
fighting white lines
as bayonets,
dipped deep inside
an abyss of naught.
On all living
she scrawls aside,
with men and thief:
her hobby-horse
is not forgot —
poor lots of lore.

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