Of A Gilded Glory

is it not a fullness within

erupting with life

bursting at the seams

pressing outward in giving?

 

an orbed majesty

an offering displayed

for every eye to see

yet not to feel

sheets of silk to the touch

they rise, looming

like towers gilded

over a plain of bronze

­­for not even Troy

arrayed in walls of white

ramparts stacked to heights

of impenetrable stone,

even she did not own it

this measure of expression

but her own child, Helen

who is every woman

commanding the eyes of men

armies, legions who adore

worship those twin fonts

flowing springs that feed

myriads of men-to-be

 

by force their lips are parted

whether they be two days

or twenty years

for age matters not

as the strength of the male

reduced to naught

at the sight of her shores

and to less than nothing

in the moment of landfall

and so he, held wholly in thrall

obeys her word

whether yea or nay

if or until

and when and where

she may please