The Podium Of Casanova's Odium Poem by John Sensele

Tell me, Casanova, how long you'll pine
On sodden sleeves your heart you've worn
Reputation on the line in decline
Sterile standing in society shorn

Of its aura of charm and calm
Reduced to tatters
With no love balm
In sight, your maneuver no longer flatters

As you once boasted it could
At your beck and call
Methinks you're knocking on wood
Hastening your free fall

From grace as your pedestal
Driven to its knees
Slumps horizontal
With pitiful pleas

For release from the grip
The siren on you
Seems to rip
Anew

Threads of last ditch
Hope on which bits and slits of your heart hang
Primed to switch
Off the clang

In the intensive care unit
In which between Charybdis and Scylla
Where the last throes of your discomfiture knit
In the power Priscilla

Yields to snuff out
In rapid fire
The doubt
On hire that can longer respire

Gives up its ghost
In shame and odium
To a tortuous toast
On your Waterloo podium

Where spectators fed up with your pitiful pleas
Demand the coup de grace
Sleaze
To terminate your winless race to save your face.