C’est le Guerre
or The Attic
Amidst the smell of cedar slats and creaking pine,
Stained by rag-doll hair, broken books, spilt wine
Once lingered in a beaten box, my marrow true!
Alas now just dust, five prints on the lid askew.
Perhaps had I been a less liminal lass,
And with pensive concern denied the crass
culture of my time, and had I begged to detach
from needle’s eyes, might my dreams prevented snatch
But oh! to fancy did my freedom go dower
To cease not until my finest corrupted hour
When I did wed the beast of shame and glut
And no more hands later, the pearl gates did shut
From dust to dust I shall return to thee
A lonesome story for a once bride to be
Unbeknownst that wish might detest the mire,
My heavy empty chest mutters and I do retire.
I urge you now to shuffle off this coil for His and Him,
dampen your epicurean desires and hedonistic whim!
cease your pride and pining of passionless sport!
release your horde of silver piles, and gold support!
erase your claim of the rivers as your own decree,
For I am proof that death doth not stop at the bourgeois.
Moth, muck, and man will seize your precious part,
So heed this cry, and defend alone your sinewed heart!
