"May she will stay ...
September I'll remember" Paul Simon (after an old nursery rhyme)
A poem based on the myth of the seasons ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persephone )
Old men should know better. Young women. Yet at least one god made that mistake too. Or makes it, over and over and over. For in the dual nature of gods, eternal and temporal, he experiences the cycle's repetition, timelessly and for all time, each turn of the wheel, as new, the only, while at the same time, or rather beyond time, knowing it is not the first nor will it be the last but that it will be re-enacted over and over and over. Forever and ever and ever, amen.
Is it more pathetic, bathetic, foolish, ridiculous, to be the god? Or the old man who tastes the dregs but once, but drinks that vintage but once also? Who even before the masque is commenced, knows by a stroke and a stab gyring deeper than even the memory of his first, or of his great, love, that here at the last, of the too many to have left him, to have been left by him, that as cruelly blameless as a peregrine wending or a lynx queen rending, she shall be his last, love.
In that, their foreknowledge born of the years, the seeing in the budding the petal's future falling, in the hatching the flight, they are the same, gods and old men who should know better. Who should know better than I?
For my Otaku Veela. No blame.
Shot in the Catalinas in AZ.
Proserpine sits wan on Pluto's throne
He is old and cold
Lifeless surrounded, smothered, she is alone
Yearns wold, Stay nold
Like a sunflower sun turning for like young burning but buried alive inside she soundless screams
Azureless vault, Munch, and suttee
Guinevere, are these to be her adharma's themes?
She shall be free!
Like a doe, like a dove, like a feline Kore queen
To, not from, to flee
Life, laughter, love, sun and shine, see, be seen
Pluto sits alone his throne. Joylessly, jealously, Proserpine
Hoarded like Fáfnir's gold
Lies buried alive in memory, his misery miserly
Whealed, old, corpse cold