Equo Ne Credite, Teucri! Quidquid Id Est - More In Sorrow Than In Anger 1799 Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Past promise starred in white on black
now, coward, bows to stark attack,
as Miss amiss, remiss of bliss
no gift transmits, no parting kiss,
no passing flow may tide love back,
just unjust torture, stretched on rack.

Yet Gift in German cannot lack
ironic understanding, fact
plague vision curse calls as abyss
replaces metamorphosis
which, stifled now, has got the sack,
past glory's presents must repack.

Hope, once held high, down vortex crack
has fallen low, nor trace, nor track,
will leave - one day proclaimed 'Exist! '
next, angels laid to rest, 'Desist! '
cried, while bloom memories most stack
mind mirage prove, lost dreams, alack!

Crimson confession sin intact
stunts bloom, busts boom, turns fancy fact
doomed, fall too steep to handle, this
is gloom tomb room antithesis
of love's dreams, to autodidact
contradicts: fair thought, false act.

O brave new world's new dawn, alack,
it seems consistency has lacked,
'acceptance' as hypothesis
is wanting found, ground zero, this
can't stay unmoved, guilt weighs, frame tack
round aura gilt gleams inexact.

From heart in heat to cold urn plaque,
to grave from rave one step, one smack,
to void from telekinesis,
from wishful thinking reminisce,
from common ground can truth back-track
to grounded flight, light dowsed, wretch wracked.

(2 August 2008)