Wailing For Her Demon Lover
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Woman wailing for her demon lover,
Not less than this the enterprise
Every poet tries to ring from a holy instrument,
Her body lowered from her stricken mind;
The hailstorm of media’s ceaseless electronic bling
Flashes in the rising notes,
Selfie’s drama of streaming fate,
And on her dulcimer she plays
Such a music loud and long,
Intricate in every sensuous measure
Like a bright green snake coiled round a fallen dove,
Delicate and unrelenting means,
To worship her form, her cunning ownership
Of what men dream they will surely be.
A lovely visage waved its tongue,
And the lady’s eyes they shrunk in her head.
© ross 2018