Poem: Prince

 

Prince

 

desire devolves

into the worms it seeks to avoid.

thorns outlive the kick of the wine,

the decay of the blush.

 

a sharp needle of rue

from even the smallest ghost

can possess such audacity;

and the rage takes on the full-fledged iron

of the maurader’s lance,

 

stabbing then

 

down and down,

through layers of masquerades,

and the contrivances of calm

that gird various throne rooms.

 

down and down,

into that most private and unwanted,

regret-rich and volatile,

pool.

 

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