Monday, October 29, 2018

Now is the Winter of My Discontent



Now is the winter of my discontent
After glorious spring by my men of York
Oh, of all the demons to destroy our treasured house
Their dagger deep in my bosom buried
My head bowed before their victorious wreaths
My battered ego gazing upon our lifeless monuments
My screams of delight turned shrieks of agony
Their dreaded march played to final measure
Gruesome war hath drained hope from my wearied visage
For now, it is the morning of their barbed tongues
Piercing the very soul of a vanquished adversary
Their frolic done through the Coast of West
Their song of victory stinging as vipers in my ear
I am filled with envy for their sportive tricks
I dare not gaze upon their winner's glass
I, stamped so fragile of heart, deprived of such fair possession
Cheated of lauding by this most horrid contrivance
Depressed, my stanza unfinished, cut to the quick before its time
Cast out into a desultory universe, but poorly made up
And that those so harsh and unseemly
Would bark their howling tune for yet another eternity
Why can I find in this hour no sliver of silent peace
No hint of shadow for there is found no moment of sun
I descend into an endless night of bereavement
And dare not dream of the possibility of a glorious tomorrow
There is but nothing to fill the emptiness of these days
 I have been struck a mortal blow by an empire of villains
Pleasure but derisive enemy of my most withering pain
Thoughts I once dared now haunting my wounded soul
Dreams, like vicious swords, cutting me through and again
Oh that my eyes could not serve as witness to their thorny crown
In desperate hate we have forever stood one against the other
Yet if somehow the gods be compassionate and just
And have pity upon one laid so despairingly low and forsaken
If one day they should know the sting that so cleaves me now
And if it be not cruelty that envisions near my men king slayers 
But for now I must rest my bloodied brain of such useless dreams
For the conquerors once more descend upon me in their unadulterated glory


Harvey F Leeds said...


Anonymous said...

You couldn’t have just written “da bums”?


Robert said...

I did.

Anonymous said...


Anonymous said...

Where words are scarce,
They are seldom spent in vain
For they breathe truth,
That breathe their words in pain