The Cygnet Was a Princess


The cygnet
was a princess
crucified on a northern cross,
adrift above

the corrupt grey
of human frailty.  She cried
genuine tears as we
extolled the virtues

inexplicable puerility,
embodied in the love
of tyrants.  Imagine,
we vitrified time’s sands

with the deaths of suns
to lessen the fog
of seeing where we could,
the unwritten rule

of slaves who, through
the emergency
of the failing intellect,
kept to their masters.



2 thoughts on “The Cygnet Was a Princess

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