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Poem
V

Indeed, it is so far, far, far back where last I
Stood in sight of all her unnerving ambiguities...          
This overstated manner inborn of an innate
And intimidating elegance.                                  
The calculated deliberateness accentuated by the 
Slowed turning of that stern head: a vague sense            
Of violent menace that never failed to make
Me feel ill-at-ease;                                        
For what fool would'st knowingly displease                  
This fierce countenance?                                    
Even the uncaring Gods themselves were divided in 
Their garrulous opinions;                                  
Some demanded a sacrifice -- soon a kings invincible
Hands stained with blood! Then the countless                 
Assembled minions                                                                                                                                               
Setting sail upon an opportune wind; 
But, in retrospect...she never was one to give the 
Old rituals but a passing glance.                           
Troubled I find myself wondering if it was 
Just mere chance                                            
That I should find her, alone and waiting, here 
In this place today?                                        
Those ancient immortals she always tried so
Hard to ignore:-                                            
How she detested how they had held great sway                 
In determination of all those things which have
Gone before.                                                


What price now, I ask, of the dire consequence's
Spawned of that woeful oath?                                
Was the soul of even one heroic life really
Worth the cost of that mirthless smile?                     
Oh the staggering magnitude of that deceit! And 
All the long while                                          
The secret assignations...you full knew, both               
Of you, how, eventually, it would end. His boastful
Troth --                                                    
Ill-made right from the very start!                         
She, drunk with all the lewd ecstasies of Dionysus.         
Thus it is, and looking upon her indifferent arrogance, 
So unlike the distorted softening carved into that 
Alabaster bust,                                             
I find I am prompted, once again, to quietly remark                
On what the inner-workings of such a sterile heart          
Could possibly know of love?                                
For they do say the union of beauty and modesty
Is extremely rare;                                                 
Rarer yet the greater dignity required when enabling
Beauty to rise above                                        
An imposition of regal splendour. I suspect the plain 
Truth simply being she just did not, in all honesty,
Ever properly care.
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