From famous, graven faces, touch-faded
The next generation’s wastrels turn away,
At whose feet forefathers placed
Into divine keeping intricately painted vases
In which were heaped ashes from burnt black babies
Achilles of the willing unreason, of the million friezes,
The riddle of unmade steel, whose attention freezes,
Who outshoots Artemis of Ephesus,
Who, to this keynote speaker screeding post-Jesus,
I should be neither keen nor best pleased to know or have for tea.
Achilles of the weakling feet
Who shall in dying creaseless live ceaseless;
His well-etched name serving shamefully as fatal flaw’s byword.
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment