Tuesday, 31 July 2012

She Walks In ... (due apologies to Lord Byron)

She walks in Arrogance, like no other
In climes warmed over by Hell itself
Of self given power, and little honour
All that's worst -ever- in her, engulf
The little haven, our little heaven, serene.
She, who inhabits it, a dreaded queen.
And all it seems, now, too late to dwell
On the new formed vacuum, that does swell
With rancid aftertaste of a deed most foul
Darker more vicious than Macbeth's ghoul!
 And yet, on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
 So soft, so calm, yet deadly,
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
 But tell of undercurrents aplenty,
 A mind hellbent at war with peace within,
 A heart whose love pretends innocence!
31 July, 2012
All due apologies to Lord Byron, who penned this delightful poem, "She Walks in Beauty", (given below), mercilessly massacred by me above. Had to. Rant day. Sigh.
She Walks in Beauty 
She walks in beauty, like the night
        Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
    And all that's best of dark and bright
        Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
    Thus mellowed to that tender light
        Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
    One shade the more, one ray the less,
        Had half impaired the nameless grace
    Which waves in every raven tress,
        Or softly lightens o'er her face;
    Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
        How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
    And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
        So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
    The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
        But tell of days in goodness spent,
    A mind at peace with all below,
        A heart whose love is innocent!

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