Deborah Boydston Deborah Boydston
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Love the last line in this stanza.

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Bhaskar Thakuria Bhaskar Thakuria
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WHILE SINGING TO OZYMANDIAS' GLORY


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soul mates

For long have I dwelt in the earth's crust
To see mankind crushed in its glory,
Till I rose to these starry heights
To recreate the tyrannical pillars of Ozymandias' story.


Much did I hope to methodize the rabble
Only to be ousted by their temporal babble
Till my soul yielded itself to carnal philosophy
And abdicated its rights to blasphemous heresy.


No longer did I then retrace the roots of reason;
A being crazed by the yearnings of the flesh.
Much afflicted I was by the turn of the season,
A turn to a nectarean paradise.


When there arose a sage-holy and enchanted
To tread the heathen realms of the mind corrupted;
He leapt through the flaming pages of the book of gold
And carried me through magical holds.


For it was but the temptress-the fornicatress of yore,
The pitcher of sin, the gateway to Hell,
The whore of Babylon that arose from Adam's rib in old folklore
That captivated my visions in that multitude of passions.


A singed bird then arose from the ambers
Of the scorching brazier that one chose not to remember
The brazier by which the Father exorcised the fornicatress
While lending thy healing hand on her tresses.


It was this same brazier, which
Redolent with the vicissitudes of the populace,
Carved its niche among the sodden virtues of men
And profited him in his turmoil by providing the pace.


And it was a pace generated to oust
This spirit of joust and rust
That had incorporated itself into this vice-ridden soul
Contorted in its struggle against the Sirenian ghoul.


The sage spoke to me,'It is Mara-the spirit of the evil one,
That sweet temptation, the bedrock of profligate delicacies.
Beware thee in thy earthly states of its irrepresible lures
Not to leave an epitaph of sin in your fallen legacy. 1 comment


For you, my son, are but living in a world of deception;
A world full of vain glory that escapes your perception.
Your place is but governed by cold sneer-
A house of sacrilege, the cold insight of despotic peers.


For who is that being-that is the creator of this tyrannical legacy
At once besotted by the cravings of the viscera.
The originator of the rabble which lays waste to all beauteous prophecies
At once fall prey to a thing of beauty?


For what is he worth but his dusty and decayed
Remains; all barrenness and desolation portrayed.
For he loves all the beauteous things of nature
And a visceral reaction for a seductive and promiscuous creature."


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Next: think you're kind of neat and then she tells me, "you're a creep."