The Countess Of Neither Land Poem by Anton Edwards

the story of this fable is a warning
to those thinking life is sweet to treasure.
yet when you wake up, early in the morning,
you see your old age, mirrored in displeasure

if we were friends, be that a lapse in judgment,
i'd summon you to meet me, face to face.
to cipriani's you would rush, delighted
to be at last presented to her Grace

to most, bred as mere star-struck vassals,
the dear Countess appears haute and rude.
so royally enthroned in fine castles,
demanding feudal duty, vile and shrewd

she would dismiss you as a mere mortal
and cut you off mid-sentence, as a test
of your subdued submission to her sort of,
sashéd with pedigree, ornate heraldic crest

capricious, outlandish, and eccentric
bizarrely dull, yet not at loss for words,
Contessa, with her most annoying accent,
will make it feel you're crumbling inwards

i'll say that much - her act is well delivered,
rehearsed in countless salons and fêtes.
a lad of weaker nerves would turn aquiver
regaled by the regal, regalia-laden intellect

you're free to ask - where is this fable's lesson?
it's true, i've gone too far- and here it goes:
only a fool would let the Grande Dame lessen
his sense of self - she's but a shriveled rose!

predictable, clichéd, and insecure
still clinging to a ruined efflorescence
the fake countess is nothing but obscure
and way advanced into female senescence

emotions are but chips, blackmail is the game.
oblivious - or too aware? - you decide..
she buys devotion, gambles without shame
toying with stakes of others' honest lives

her sherry netherland demesne is in default
proving decades of wasteful overreaches
the few remaining claims are in the vault
devoured fast by clans of spoiled leeches

enough is said, and with their sour taste
her days are sadly graying fast, at most
the old girl's empty shell is of old waste
decaying fast into a gin-laced ghost.