the road is littered with the remains of men
who misread the heart of a woman
and more even are the broken bodies of men
who mistook a womans lust for love.

first he see's a smooth-limbed goddess
where stands a broken thing, a ruin
and invests her with a pure, white soul
and perfect breasts and a heart of gold.

when he's done the thing that he's created
is a fools picture wrought upon a canvas
that distorts every line and smears every image
into the very agent of his bondage and misery.

A million years have been given to women
to sharpen their tongues and stir the black iron cauldron of their ancient, poisonous recipes
And standing there is the dumb result:

a haggard shell, a ghost who smokes too much
and sits staring out the window all night long,
a once joyful, once dreaming shadow of a man
waiting by the telephone for sweet despair

to ring him up.





© W.G. Myers