The Sprigs and Spirit of Sistine -12
Yes, I remember the day very well,
I left my cave in Cumaea for the palace of Palatine,
the sun was sullen behind a veil of volcanic cloud,
Tarquin, the final king of the Etruscan Romans
was handsome under his crown,
his eyes were lapis lazuli blue, his beard copper gold,
he was patient with a haughty grin,
I was received in the courtyard of the Temple Mars,
the fluted columns were tall as ancient timbers
and the sky was at war with the land,
even then my beauty was robust
I had the contours of Love's funerary vase
my face was fair as unblemished polished marble
my body smelled of exotic spice,
I came before the king
with business on my breath,
I was proffering my books of prophecy
like a witch who wastes no wonder
in the selling of spells to those suspicious of good and evil,
randomly, as fate can seem to be,
I picked and plucked verses
like wild irises and roses
hoping to enchant Tarquin's tastes
for that which may or may not be,
and although allured by the future on my lips
he scoffed at the price I persisted,
and each time he dared scoff
I threw another album on the fire,
as the ashes of my prophecy
flew quick and quiet all about
I deigned to read one more
which his heart could not refuse
to which he paid me the original price
before two thirds had burned,
For he who wears the inheritance of thorns
the keys of God he holds in palms...
J.A.B.
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