Ancient Aches of Yore
What I wish upon
without the worldly wants of wanton
whatnots, that which shall appease and
please my parted past,
prepondered present, the proposeth place of peace, to
the far-
flung findings of a future that finds me floundering in the
feckless
face of faithless fortune.
For there I base my
future on those from whom my fervor
flowed fleetfully forth, on those who wove
the seamless strands
of sentient sense and self which formed me ‘fore the
Father fit
my fate in flesh, to honour those who had no power to honour
but the
Hallowed He.
I will stand upon the
sturdy shoulders of the souls I sent to sue,
the mithered morrows in the mire that
wrench my wandering
witless wish of weak and wilted woe, and free them from the
fatalist fable of feeble feminist foes and find for them a favoured
fiat to
finally fill and flow.
All these tinkerings
through tailored days filled with thoughtless
truths, that lead me ever
longingly to lost lynched love left
listlessly beside the lucent lake, where yawning
youths of
yokelish yore yank yielding years no more.
My forever since the
beginning of eternity doth ebb and earn
and echo, it lays beneath the soft
sweet soil of seven sorrowful
spheres, where passing pricks doth pierce its
pride and perturb
its pierced presage, and make the mangled meagre me moan
miasmal melodies.
I write these witless
wishful words of wistful wailful weakness,
knowing now and nary, nevermore,
this needless naïve
nonsense, shall e’er again be given flight to fall upon the
floor
forsaken by the favoured fella whose fervor flamed then fled.
The tortured toss and
turn of night as still I thirst for thee, to take
thee in these tender arms, to
care and caress unceasingly, to
comfort thine careful cause, to give these
gifts of grateful graft
to grow gracefully grey with glee.
All the while, the
aching axiom, thine abject anger at me, thine
harboured hateful hubric heart
that heaps its horrors hereto,
while thinking itself a thoughtful type though tangled
in
thankless turbulence, trapped in tawdry tenacity, the desperate
depths of
deceit.
And so the morrows
shall move once more, the yesters shall
disappear, the deep despairing
desperate days shall hide amongst
the years, among the ancients to ash
appointed alone and aching
to die, never to greet thine grace again nor grant
this grief some
peace.
Warrior Princess
