A Goddess, divine, a heavenly Angel, a fair Beauty,
a Polish Princess, - her fathers daughter, her nations psyche,
in force, sits astride her Trojan horse, poised
to unleash upon man ( this man ) all the warriors
in her arsenal – the backbone of her diatribes,
her vilifications, her tirades –as she –with venomous smiting -
tries to bring down this house - this man – who, for two, plus,
years did withstand the on slot with the light of love
to shield him against all the slings and arrows,
all the stiletto words, all the striking swords,
the chopping axes, the beheading guillotines. ,
the poisoned tongued barbs, spears oozing,
dripping with far to much cynicism, criticism,
judgmentalness, built upon a platform of self worth.
Love - the gift – is the kindness given our Lady, fair
who believes it to be a weakness, an over used,
You can fool some of the people all the time –
including one’s self.
You can fool all the people some of the time -
including one’s self.
But you can not fool me for very long !
Does this Ladies, psyche – projected on to me –
come to all ?, or just the chosen ?
Does our fair Beauties psyche ( self ) come from
the experiences of her adult journey ?
or had it been given birth in the arms of
ancient history – patriarchal times, when men played god,
and ruled by degradation and authoritarianism -
who’s voice still echoes inside our impenetrable-
mount Moneca’s, core being, and has for so long,
that it seems to be the voice of her own soul,
the echoes of which – from the past – are
indistinguishable from her echoes in the present.
Who’s voice is it ?. do I hear tearing at my ear !
The eyes through which our fair Lady, sees –
perceives all of life around her – of coarse –
comes from the labyrinths of her mind,
and the logic she gives credence to as being –
the be all and end all to her unshakeable word –
from this Beauty, of contradictions.
To ashes, this Phoenix – from the flames she ignites –
she has exiled, without reprieve, without hope of ever rising,
again to see, to know the light of day or to be the man
with this woman, to play the songs of love, to know the joys,
the pleasures of the heart, the soul. The spirit of the body.
Is all the above hypothesis, been a game, just for me ?,
always coming at me – this ice laden wind of Polish decent –
to let me know – for her – what I ment.
B. J. “A” 2
August 18th 2008