"metuant" poems
'Oderint dum metuant. Atreus, Books III–V "De Ira", I, 20, 4.'
They unwrap me like candy
Peeling, stripping flesh and sinew carelessly
Rice paper thin boldness dissolving
Melamine tinged shifting unsettled smiles
I grin back at them sweetly,
Teeth and jaw, bare bone beaming white
They have made me no more but the refreshing whispers of wrappers
Now, I am the nothingness that they cannot destroy
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 10:53 PM UTC
A mixture of ash and dust
floats down from ceiling.
From rusted chandelier to
stone.
He sits at the top
of a long hallway,
the tapestries guiding visitors to the
throne.
Greying sideburns, hand too weak
to do much as lift his key ring—
the keys that most define as a
sword.
He makes no eye contact
while you kneel on his dust,
more focused on how his wine is
poured.
Look upon your king
Despise if you must
He has overstayed his welcome
He lifts his head
Bones shuddering
Voice that makes any man feel his thirst
“Odiet dum metuant”
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 10:54 PM UTC