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.