02-29-2016, 05:25 PM
Bitter farewell
Arthur, see him lying there,
cold and dead,
This is not the Arthur I knew,
where is the life,
the relentless vigor,
the burning intellect,
That helped forge this kingdom,
from petty kings?
How I hated you,
so noble and pure,
always the country first,
before yourself, before me.
How difficult to live
in your shadow, cold.
Where was the warmth
of a husband?
Duty always came first to you,
duty to the country.
Damn this country
that sucked the life from our love.
Our marriage bed so often cold,
I needed warmth,
all I received was the frigid honor
of being your queen.
For all his burning, Lancelot
was not near so warm as you,
but your duty always
stood between us,
like a wall between
a cold traveler and the fire.
Damn you Arthur,
how dare you leave me now.
It was not the queen that betrayed you,
it was the women,
but you betrayed me first,
left me to him,
then condemned me
when I sought him out,
but yours was the greater affair.
You always loved this country
more than you loved me,
and then expected me
to bed down with her.
You made love to her,
let her suck the life from you,
this vampire bitch,
this wanton whore, this Britain.
Now that she no longer
has you on which to suckle,
she will now come for me.
Sucking from these barren teats,
leaving me a dried out husk,
just as you, nothing left,
not even a good meal for the worms.
They call me whore, slut,
perpetrator of treason,
but that is only because
my sins were so petty.
You never committed petty crimes,
yours were always
the sins of the gods.
That is why they hate me!
My sins were so mundane,
yours were always so terribly grand.
They forgave you, even the time
you had all those children slaughtered,
trying to find your errant seed,
that bastard of your downfall, Mordred.
No, they forgave you even that,
for wasn't that like the hand of Zeus,
striking down from the heavens
taking life indiscriminately,
for a larger purpose?
No, my real crime was being a woman,
having a woman’s needs.
The people of this fairyland,
will stand only so much humanness
in their gods before they cast them down.
How could you leave me
all alone like this Arthur?
Leaving me to these dogs to tear;
a piece of meat to savage.
Is this then my punishment,
for betraying you?
To try to hold together what we built,
even as it rips me apart,
a butchers knife to mutton,
a sacrificial lamb,
in your place on the alter?
I can not do it Arthur, I am not you,
I don't love this fickle land like you did.
Though for love of you,
I will lay down with you mistress,
even though it will be my death.
But what care I of death, I embrace it,
for without you I am dead already,
May I join you soon my love,
let us stand before God,
and learn to love each other
as we never did on this cruel earth.
erthona
©2005 revised 2016
Arthur, see him lying there,
cold and dead,
This is not the Arthur I knew,
where is the life,
the relentless vigor,
the burning intellect,
That helped forge this kingdom,
from petty kings?
How I hated you,
so noble and pure,
always the country first,
before yourself, before me.
How difficult to live
in your shadow, cold.
Where was the warmth
of a husband?
Duty always came first to you,
duty to the country.
Damn this country
that sucked the life from our love.
Our marriage bed so often cold,
I needed warmth,
all I received was the frigid honor
of being your queen.
For all his burning, Lancelot
was not near so warm as you,
but your duty always
stood between us,
like a wall between
a cold traveler and the fire.
Damn you Arthur,
how dare you leave me now.
It was not the queen that betrayed you,
it was the women,
but you betrayed me first,
left me to him,
then condemned me
when I sought him out,
but yours was the greater affair.
You always loved this country
more than you loved me,
and then expected me
to bed down with her.
You made love to her,
let her suck the life from you,
this vampire bitch,
this wanton whore, this Britain.
Now that she no longer
has you on which to suckle,
she will now come for me.
Sucking from these barren teats,
leaving me a dried out husk,
just as you, nothing left,
not even a good meal for the worms.
They call me whore, slut,
perpetrator of treason,
but that is only because
my sins were so petty.
You never committed petty crimes,
yours were always
the sins of the gods.
That is why they hate me!
My sins were so mundane,
yours were always so terribly grand.
They forgave you, even the time
you had all those children slaughtered,
trying to find your errant seed,
that bastard of your downfall, Mordred.
No, they forgave you even that,
for wasn't that like the hand of Zeus,
striking down from the heavens
taking life indiscriminately,
for a larger purpose?
No, my real crime was being a woman,
having a woman’s needs.
The people of this fairyland,
will stand only so much humanness
in their gods before they cast them down.
How could you leave me
all alone like this Arthur?
Leaving me to these dogs to tear;
a piece of meat to savage.
Is this then my punishment,
for betraying you?
To try to hold together what we built,
even as it rips me apart,
a butchers knife to mutton,
a sacrificial lamb,
in your place on the alter?
I can not do it Arthur, I am not you,
I don't love this fickle land like you did.
Though for love of you,
I will lay down with you mistress,
even though it will be my death.
But what care I of death, I embrace it,
for without you I am dead already,
May I join you soon my love,
let us stand before God,
and learn to love each other
as we never did on this cruel earth.
erthona
©2005 revised 2016
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.