Your unmatched beauty drives
chariots and men, a teeming throng.
Yet you garrote your own throat
with your barbed tongue.
Your fine face betrayed
when I told you, “You are the precious
of a drowning man. You are
rocks in my pockets.”
In your name, this pillar I erect
although you disaffect.
This day, I find you dangled
from an oak tree. Hanging, but not
from your Absalom’s tresses, Tangled
in the claw of an unwanted crown, feet dangling
off the ground
Should I let you spin a compass,
like Huxley’s Savage, before your end
And when I approach to pierce you
with my sword and arrows, I may
choose yet to set you free.
A poem in progress. Draft 1.