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About This Poem
stricken
Wrapped in some linen appearing as drab;
Beneath a saber of menace that constantly stabs.
It’s a mother of vengeance with words spat from vile;
It’s a thing of deceptions that has charmed and beguiled.
A possessor of titles with a venomous charm
But not a confessor of doings that harm.
Surrounded by circles disguised by a maze;
Seeing only reflections from a sight that is glazed
In a cave with a fire its creator does watch;
It’s a pleasure exquisite that flows from its crotch.
Is it human or demon as for me I don’t know;
But I know that I’ve heard it where ever I go.
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