Self Wonder

Once, the harpies wings have ceased

and, all their buzzard kills,

have moved to live elsewhere...

to other lives,

fulfilled of what they missed...here,

to your carping vanities...

there will be silence,

unlike, any you have heard;

sweet gods of face...

stilled...ever, of your own great beauty...

held...awed...incarcerated...of your self wonder.

So, these sky's will not be,

but other sky's will clear...

for not having you there.

Because, there is a day for things,

a night, for rudeness and sublime indifference...

you came, and were allowed...a time.

There is no more.

A world deserves to sleep and take her rest...

without such gods, as gaily watch her die.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: Velasquez, The Rokeby Venus 1649-51