Sir Wm. Sestina Throws down a Gauntlet of Charles B. Arouet “…And what will quiet this wretched night’s dispute Do ye’ fancy, the idle desk-bound labored crush?” Eyes open slowly; a voice beyond care, Whispers of dreamers and prayers bloomed and gone Bewail at the blatant complex ruse: a front Frustrated by the gamesmen plenty. Search the horizon for promised plenty, Where cloud kissed lands guard wealth beyond dispute. But then, I do appear so from the front (Hillbilly reader; thou palpable heart’s crush), Somniscient honey bees, diligence gone, Withhold from ancient treasure care Exhausted and endless running for world worn care Where once th’ imagined hopes of hopscotch plenty Now is the aftermath; now flames are gone. Who will cleanse the reddened spoils of dispute? A liquorish remnant discarded in mad crush Lost vanguard of the final front. Turn on the alibi, truth spins a front. Time pays out double if Heaven shows care. “Do you suspect I’ve trekked so far to crush Dull maddening boredom in this our land of plenty?” Wishes call angels, no one can dispute. False wings string silken hearts. Yon talisman (poor opulent wreckage gone) Sits meekly never wishing to affront, Look to the east to redeem this dispute. Cold light cracks the shadow with little care. Carousal by dappled sea-side flows there plenty Opaque the oranged sweetmeat crush. Seed pods float empty in the gentle crush. Dance, wayward children, on moments soon gone. “Do I appear, in rags, a fount o’ plenty? I haven’t one bit ‘round that I could front!” Flames lap at fair winds, destroy without care, Purify, pacify, dispute. Envoi: “Whore’s manure a plenty! -Risk disaster and confront Long gone disdained affection! Eclipse foul care!” Lost grains crush the renewed dispute.
Posted on: Mon, 17 Jun 2013 04:59:26 +0000
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