.
There was a time
when a poet was the bane,
a thorn in the side of fathers,
seeking to protect their starry eyed daughters,
to keep their virtue intact and pure,
from the menace of romantic verse,
and the lure of a handsome wordsmith.

There was a time
women would queue to be his muse,
pray to be the next broken hearted tragedy,
in rhymes penned by his stroking fingers,
the fulcrum of an adventure in love,
to fulfil their private fantasies of destiny,
being the plaything of word woven desire.

There was a time
ladies in lace and fur and of status
raided accounts of rich and flaccid husbands,
to bestow favour and gifts,
upon the man who turned them on,
with *** for their lust starved bodies
and soft words for sensitive emotional need.

There was a time
and now its has long gone,
the poet barely catches a beautiful muse,
hardly ever breaks a heart,
nor seduces a benefactors second glance,
leading her to book and bed,
as the world offers her distractions new.



© Pagan Paul (25/04/18)

Broken parts want mending
in catering to your sentimental
and making grave stones
To hold the weight
Of your greif.
I want not judgment
Or thoughts of what could have been.
But the acceptance that my wombs fruit
Decayed
Before it could be
Displayed
and my heart will never beat
In my fruit
Not that fruit.
Pray for new fruit
Someday fruit.
But not that fruit.
It decayed in the dirt
And I'm sad.
But I hold my grief
In wind chimes and grave stones
And sentimental is my pain
For the imaginary happiness
If things had ripened.

Mirrored like a windowpane
I know you’re there, but not at all
No great height at last it would be
To fall like this, endlessly
Into the wellspring of it all
But to a craft and wet stone be
The way you hone the idea smooth
Like a riverbed, put me to rest
And toss me as a stone unto
And in doing so
Smooth me into you