How holy and pristine your shoulders seemed
I watched gentle fingers of light bless them
I asked my weary horse if I had dreamed
You into white being, like a poem
He has no patience for my stranger thoughts
But bore me to your taciturn portal
Beyond it, what I found tied me in knots:
Instead of saintly relics, immortal
I found a horde of ancient, worthless coins
The tattered silks of a deceased orgy
A creaking mass of toys, made to thrill loins
Long since devoured by maggots, hungry
I reeled outside, and the moon found my horse
Decadence was the theme of our discourse
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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