Terry Hicks
Hair black as night, sparkling by stars cosmically laden.
Even as she walks, she appears to dance.
Even as she speaks, a harmonious serenade extols.
Even as she smiles, kings and queens ensconce.
Aphrodite! You let this be? Sigh, comprehension’s holes.
Because of her, the goddess loses her pigeonholed.
Grace bursting, thru divinity does she trade in.
Venus! Do thou eye this woman, this maiden?
Atop trimmed plains and breathing hills have I travelled.
In the journey had a wise sage’s words acutely baffled.
Did he say, “Pupil, by her design there beith a range Olympian to rappel.”
From my mouth reflective, response rolls.
“Art there a mountain of unearthed lost souls?”
“Massif men enraptured by her trance?”
“A choice, was it ever given?”
Smile donned, dancing beneath excited nostrils, all knee bent to eyes held in glance.
The sage replied, “Subject to beauty’s gaze, doesn’t reason remain hidden?”
Troiae amici mei, I call thee wisdom’s gracious patron.
Then again, even Midas would hold no limit to his riches for this maiden.
To whom does mythology pay homage most often to?
Of course! Those whom can split the heart in two;
Mine heart and mind intertwine, by pinkish hue do I name a few.
Helen of Troy,
Penelope, Queen of Ithaca,
Andromeda, Princess of Ethiopia,
Eurydice, Orpheus’ Enchantee,
Psyche, Love’s Killer.
Oh! How scripture has immortalized these women.
Image and name alike; elegant epithet given.
As above so below, should the words and dames before your gaze be christen.
With remorseless joy,
Light gleams off her figurine basilica,
Her thought…winter felled neurotopia,
Her eyes…products of a just heist, jewels plucked from Thea’s treasure chest by vigilante.
Her vision, but a whisp, leaving the mind serenely chiller.
Donatello! I can tell she beith sculpted without even being a mason.
Awakened from cryptic basin, the Florentine exclaimed, “Troiae amici mei, tis so fair a maiden.”
One may ask, of whom do I speak?
The fun arrives by giving no peek,
Into an answer yet discernable.
Could it be you? The one whose eyes wreathe these lines with attention most worshipful.
Or is the whole affair arbitral?
Curious one, even the most coveted act to humans requires two.
Solving this, comes nothing anew,
Though the components, rather than without, be within you.
Hence, when marching through these words, do have a coat of care to crusade in;
And then, let us both justly admire the maiden.
Civilizations rise and fall,
Destine to ash piles either minute or colossal aren’t they all?
Cultures seed and wither,
Inevitably, for them, does not the reaper come hither?
Planetary bodies form and crumble,
Are not the celestial regents fated samely to an umbel?
And so, what then leaves a glorious end to the swimming menhaden?
Words, these words, forgo fati to give life eternal alongside divinity epidermal,
As is just, to the memory.
For never was there so fair a maiden.
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