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
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.