The Faerie Queene

Blank eyes

Blank heart

Blank paper to start

And he checks the clock by the minute.

Given task and conceit too huge to conceive

Given time too little to do it.


The virtues of Man swirl about in his head


Untied balloons

Fizzing and filling every corner

He dips his pen in an oil slick that

Managed to kill an ecosystem

Of poetry.



I think I have cried that once,

When a church organist demandeth it.

Paint a red cross across the dead, lost night

And hear the maidens’ whim like it were

Breathless and



He is scared of the system

He is caught in the system

He does not believe in a woman-led land.

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