The Slave Maker
You slithering obsession;
You creeping vine, wrapped round progressive centuries,
Til kings and rebels and dreaming men
Become as lackeys,
Following your trailing, withered leaves.
You visit men in midst of night.
Your comely form mirrors fates unbidden to light of day.
Rise up - - oh Men!
But you, sheathed in shimmering sensation,
Beckon them to cross the barren edge…
Dust to dust
And men pass on,
Ever trapped by your treacherous caress,
And words: “Ah, such is life,”
Fall as stones from unprotesting lips.
But as men lie on Death’s rotating rim
They quick identify you, the Victress.
Copyright © Jean Bush | 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