His Lacquered Head

He stalks the glowing circle
Seduces maids and hardened spinsters
With one burnished face
Masters an angry mob
Intent upon his death
With another
Battles evil
Fights cruel fates' clinging threads
But behind the painted temples
He sits alone in silent craft
Wishing just once it were not a sham
That the crowd might love him
Not the painted face he wears
That his hand could right a wrong
Not a straw man meant to fail
That the love in maiden's eyes
Were not remembered from another's bed
That the gentle caress was not
Upon his lacquered head


  1. T.S ELIOT

    T.S ELIOT on 11/07/2005 8:03 a.m. #

    Hail the new William Blake!

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