Shalom Grassy
In a message dated 05.02.03 3:59:56 PM, [log in to unmask]
writes:
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Roi de Verre
They filled a glass Byzantine cup, blood red [sangrine – my word :-)?]
as noble swordsman's shame. My taster tried
the wine. I watched the wholeness of his head
fall back, the gulp, the gasp. I think he died.
Before I smashed the venomed vessel down,
I saw the gleam of sacred gems, the sly
encircling eyes, glazed light around my crown.
Now all is dark. Both day and night I writhe
through dreams. Astrologers consult their charts.
I feel black fractures branching through the bone
from where they bored a blowhole to my brain.
One day my flesh will shatter into shards
and no one, nothing, will repair my throne.
A crazed glass holds the fragments of my pain
I like the ending; your line breaks are spendid with the breaking of
sentences – makes for the madness. The subject matter is fresh; history
often makes good poetry.
kol tuv, Ryfkah
grasshopper >>
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