Untitled

Poem
Poem

What crisis?

The headdress glitters,

a throne enticing artisans – downtrodden,

abounding around suckles

of an age old milk that feeds,

nourishes animate needs.

The rich, aristocrats, rulers too

petition tears

running into Iris as the eonile:

They heard and experienced

 

delusions of grandeur, senile,                             weighed down

heavy then disintegration.

So what crisis?

Isis the mass squabble among

circumcising spirits in pursuit

headlong for the calipha –

a catharsis view requiring

a god-man to sit upon that Dark Chair,

seated briefly, usurping the grieving

Mother from her rightful place.

8106

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