The Podium of Casanova's Odium
Tell me, Casanova, how long you’ll pine
On sodden sleeves your heart you’ve worn
Reputation on the line in decline
Sterile standing in society shorn
Of its aura of charm and calm
Reduced to tatters
With no love balm
In sight, your maneuver no longer flatters
As you once boasted it could
At your beck and call
Methinks you’re knocking on wood
Hastening your free fall
From grace as your pedestal
Driven to its knees
Slumps horizontal
With pitiful pleas
For release from the grip
The siren on you
Seems to rip
Anew
Threads of last ditch
Hope on which bits and slits of your heart hang
Primed to switch
Off the clang
In the intensive care unit
In which between Charybdis and Scylla
Where the last throes of your discomfiture knit
In the power Priscilla
Yields to snuff out
In rapid fire
The doubt
On hire that can longer respire
Gives up its ghost
In shame and odium
To a tortuous toast
On your Waterloo podium
Where spectators fed up with your pitiful pleas
Demand the coup de grace
Sleaze
To terminate your winless race to save your face.
Copyright © John Sensele | Year Posted 2018
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment