August Calling
Heavy, golden days of August calling,
Wisper to my first age: a garth so sweet,
A blasted orchard with petals falling
to Earth corrupt, where dust and love may meet.
I stop there, in an endless summer's day,
Safe in Demeter's fruitless garden.
But I must remain in this siren's hell,
Shut up in Eden by Keats' lie.
This opiate past is Morgana's spell,
So etherised in a hollow I die,
Deceived and mad a Merlin base,
The idiot bastard of a shameless race.
Copyright © Bob Beaton | Year Posted 2018
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