Henrietta the Horus
Seeing through her eyes but blinded by time,
illustrious echoes salted the edge of the urns
he filled with the departed.
Poured from gourds, his oils mended each crime,
tending the fickle and flamboyant burns
with liqueurs; brokenhearted.
2 Picking Up The Peace
Knives sharpened, never dining on fleshed out lies,
the tastes of the table never waned for his arts,
and they fell to slumber for his beckon.
At supper, when he spoke, he had all their eyes;
his words, enchanting venom-less darts,
weighted with meaning from each lesson.
Mess hall was like any other promenade,
and, for leavened bread, we filled our guts
with a serenade before the feast day.
Her ovens shined as an immaculate facade
for the butcher’s endearing cuts
as they prepared to put on the new play.
4 Prisonary Variances
Nobody could argue or pick a fight
with the kettle on and the cauldron fulfilled,
with the ladies in their ballgowns.
Yet the men of the fold staged the light,
crushing embers with equations on quadrille,
moving toward checkmate while enveloped in sounds.
Sutures came loose from the back of her skirts,
and only the scribes would make notes
of who stepped on the yarns and pulled the twine.
Without the evidence of commit he diverts,
so that when unraveled, they’d be back to their boats,
and he’d be the only one there to bring her wine.
With a semester ahead, he measured the months,
so that six could be lived out as seasons
to properly till the soils in their plots.
In care for the land with a watch on all fronts,
he mended the wounds with solace and reasons
for his selectmen to stay guard at the lots.
7 Training Period
Censure, the new sensation with words in the ducts,
they led themselves to drink from the moat
when they were desperate.
Breaking out of illnesses and blights at the crux
of disease spewed from the throat,
few could survive on their merit.
8 Paid Vacation
Having taken up armaments in riches and moods,
the suits walked about at their leisure
that they may earn their own tenements.
Lacking exits, they surrendered their broods
to the wolves without forfeit to seizure,
complacently embalmed to the elements.
Blind leading through the ditches,
we stumble more often than not,
leaving evidence of our success on the leaves.
But the King’s got an outhouse for the witches,
and the sewers can’t be bought
so he draws the curtains she weaves.
2005-03-31 04:26:28 @305LJ – A. C. Hierarchy