MOTECUHZOMA
The locusts swarm in ever tighter arcs,
And dizzy whisperings pollute the air.
The time was, in my long-lost halcyon days,
I hubbed the compass of this spiraled realm
Like to the turbine of a tempest’s eye,
The axis of a great panopticon,
Whose every vassal gaze was trained on me,
Arrested in a well-lit wheel of cribs.
The glaring of my ever-watchful eye
Flushed out all glint of scandal from my slaves.
I was the copy-text to check their conduct,
And all examples I would radiate
Reflected warmly from each ardent face.
But now this ring of watchers weighs on me.
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
MOTECUHZOMA
The locusts swarm in ever tighter arcs,
And dizzy whisperings pollute the air.
The time was, in my long-lost halcyon days,
I hubbed the compass of this spiraled realm
Like to the turbine of a tempest’s eye,
The axis of a great panopticon,
Whose every vassal gaze was trained on me,
Arrested in a well-lit wheel of cribs.
The glaring of my ever-watchful eye
Flushed out all glint of scandal from my slaves.
I was the copy-text to check their conduct,
And all examples I would radiate
Reflected warmly from each ardent face.
But now this ring of watchers weighs on me.
From my play in verse, thefloralwar.com
