The Flowers of Malady
A lilting cold wind now whispers in my ears
the sum and the total of the wasting years.
The pain that blossoms upon my cheeks,
flowers of scarlet and petals of despair,
brought, brung, and bribed by the blistering air.
I am, I am, I am the land of ice,
made frigid by temptations.
Along with my country one late night I slept,
Slipping through tender fingers the gifts,
that turbulent past had thrust upon us.
A greatness elusive and eluded,
how often alluded to and allegoried of.
Along with others, many others,
too many others,
so many others,
I had combined to trade a night's sleep for a decade's pain.
It now falls upon me, a sleet, a soaking, a thundering rain.
These, this wishes of having once and again,
gone back to those other times,
times of frenzied light expectation,
from which late years of childhood were spent
in dreary excitation of adolescent's desires.
Fraught, fought and forced to see,
that those who sleep in times of need,
do sleep the sleep of death.
The horses are gone, but pale is the face of a nation,
bled white to white hot by hysteria and agonies.
Agonies inflicted, agonies infected, agonies inflected,
into tenses of imperfect past passive irresponsible.
Mistakes. Were. Made.
Yes they blossom these flowers of red,
but it is the blushing of another shame,
of having been the willing,
and only later cried rape.
The rape of an age, a nation, a dream,
a rape for which we spread our selves wide,
and then, denied that sluttish desire to be...
Irresponsible at last.
In festivals of mardi gras a danse macabre is felt
and forsworn as even it was foreseen.
Only then to be forgotten, forgiven,
but it could have been foregone,
for we were four years forewarned.
yes, yes, yes we cried.
We spasmed in orgasm and an orgy of death,
of a war we have lost,
but have not yet left.
These petals bright and burning,
are shame which has lost rage.
The flowers of malady of a simian age.