Chasing Pleiades
Here is a new poem I've written. It's a bit different from the stuff I normally write. I don't know that I am 100% satisfied with it right now.
Chasing Pleiades
Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Daughters of Babylon descend
and cruise through this sleepy town.
Heads turn and eyes stare
as your movements awaken
the passion that lies slumbering
within the adolescent gods,
who nip and bark at your heels.
There they go, the ones whose hair is glowing
They dance their round dance, as time marches on.
Is there no one to halt their pursuit,
to defend your honour
in your father's absence?
The women moan and wail,
black veils pulled down tightly,
as they sing a song at Samhain
and weep as you ride by.
There they go, the ones whose hair is glowing
They dance their round dance, as time marches on.
The weight of the world is gone
but you know who carries it for you.
You frolic with the immortals
and try to forget the one
who died to make this possible.
You offer yourselves willingly
to appease the wrath of man.
There they go, the ones whose hair is glowing
They dance their round dance, as time marches on.
One by one by one, you surrender,
offering your bodies to the night,
until only young Merope remains.
She fades away as you are whisked
off and placed upon pedestals,
trophy wives who shine on command,
for the two-bit gods of Suburbia.
There they go, the ones whose hair is glowing
They dance their round dance, as time marches on.
Chasing Pleiades
Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Daughters of Babylon descend
and cruise through this sleepy town.
Heads turn and eyes stare
as your movements awaken
the passion that lies slumbering
within the adolescent gods,
who nip and bark at your heels.
There they go, the ones whose hair is glowing
They dance their round dance, as time marches on.
Is there no one to halt their pursuit,
to defend your honour
in your father's absence?
The women moan and wail,
black veils pulled down tightly,
as they sing a song at Samhain
and weep as you ride by.
There they go, the ones whose hair is glowing
They dance their round dance, as time marches on.
The weight of the world is gone
but you know who carries it for you.
You frolic with the immortals
and try to forget the one
who died to make this possible.
You offer yourselves willingly
to appease the wrath of man.
There they go, the ones whose hair is glowing
They dance their round dance, as time marches on.
One by one by one, you surrender,
offering your bodies to the night,
until only young Merope remains.
She fades away as you are whisked
off and placed upon pedestals,
trophy wives who shine on command,
for the two-bit gods of Suburbia.
There they go, the ones whose hair is glowing
They dance their round dance, as time marches on.
Labels: poetry
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