By Jean Bush
You slithering obsession;
You creeping vine, wrapped
round progressive centuries,
Til kings and rebels and
dreaming men
Become as lackeys,
Become as lackeys,
Following your trailing,
withered leaves.
You visit men in midst of
night.
Your comely form mirrors
fates unbidden to light of day.
Rise up - - Oh Men!
But you, sheathed in
shimmering sensation,
Beckon them to cross the
barren edge….
Dust to dust
And men pass on,
Ever trapped by your
treacherous caress,
And words: “Ah, such is life,”
Fall as stones from
unprotesting lips.
But as men lie on Death’s
rotating rim,
They quick identify you, the Victress.
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