Great Expectations
great expectations
anticipated in the
poetic heart
Havisham delivered
all and more for love,
a separate unseen thief,
tore the others’ worlds apart
webs like ectoplasm
from underneath a rock
scurrying swiftly out of sight
wrapped tight around a child
dressed in mummy’s ribbons
kept for feeding later
crocodile tears for aligators
and the reclining recidivist
for overdue unholy revision
the written male read
the inner heart entombed
in stone home sarcophagus
the heart milked black
the fountain tip dripping blood,
writes murders of crows boiling
across a bardo blood red sky
all for love
Havisham delivered
on a silver platter
the delicacy of gilded poets’ hearts,
indeed, great expectations
anticipated
behind antiquated veils
flimsy from the start
young and foolish brides
dancing with shadows
become accustomed
to the losing to win, en garde,
the loss of ego and pride
revenge masks worn well
behind sharpened smiles
novices singing like larks
eventually become
ancient ghosts,
the banshees gone
the shadows fed
some dark for light
some light for dark
the novices
still standing stoic
lit like a match
holding the reigns
of Baskerville Cerberus
tallying others' minds
walking in and out
lit like a match,
let he or she
who is without sin,
you know how it goes...
cast the first stone;
upon hearing a
knock on the door
the heart clubbed, opens
the novice
sagely green
remains steadfast
a flame that never
ceases to burn out,
a flame like a mast
shining eternal St Elmos
all the way across Styx
expertly patient
the unwed bride
waits at the gate
holding in one hand a flame
the other a sign, it reads,
"entry not for everyone
Steppenwolf, only poets"
who are missing -
something -
who jump in
far far too early,
yet, like the annoying
White Rabbit
are always
to the party,
very very late
those ancient ghosts
standing stoic
behind sheer curtains
of words, in their cryptic
metaphoric worlds
keenly watching
the greater expectations
knowing better
deaths and births
not lost, yet wise,
haunting,
otherworldly,
Tipperary treasures
darkly lit,
unearthed
paragons in guise
Candide Diderot. ‘24
It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary,
To the sweetest girl I know!
Copyright ©
Candide Diderot
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