My Venus Died
I.
The night hangs heavy in this room.
Only dead-folk live here now,
Except me: my eye-fires burn -
Angers, regrets, remorses turn
Lazy circles, dancing silent
In bodies of these dead-folk
They have stolen. What right have they?
I – I bid them go; they stay.
II.
There’s nothing for it, nothing for
This illness – no nostrum, potion, nor salve,
Magic nor science – all in vain.
Shall anything heal this heart-made blain?
Yet who is ill? Not I – it’s them!
These dancing bodies – no part of me.
Not even mine. “I divorce thee! -
Ah, ah, it’s no use – impotent fury.
Am I mad? A moonbeam splashes
Across the sill, vaguely lighting
My room, in which I am alone.
III.
‘Tis the curse of the godless age:
My Venus lies dead, impaled
On my floor, washed in moon-light.
The dead-folk speared her, then took flight.
We shared the moon-lit solitude,
My dead Venus and I, her wound
Yet fresh and bleeding. The silver spear
Pierced her heart. I draw her near.
Night-terrors must I face again.
Alone now.
Alas – how?
Copyright © John Mudge | Year Posted 2016
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