Gorgon

"...the telescope is gone
which kept my optics free from
all delusion...."
-- Byron.

From this point where?
The platform of here,
on this sliding iceberg of now,
its ocean of late spring nights' undertow?

Embarrassed into reviling your perfection;
know that the moment of honour,
well honoured, will happen along.

You chastise yourself for behaving as you do,
despite reasonable hopes found within,
you chastise yourself for the dangerous joy...
of your complacency.

Does one grow too vicious
in the attempt to be more callous?
Remember that true love is a goddess...
a very dragon of a goddess.

So, as much as life chafes at the fret
in those moments of near regret,
near despair, near delight
deep, deep, in the currents
 of warm spring nights and
rainy morning melancholies,
while you contemplate your stern 'ghosts of folly',
remember
its' an aesthetic mandala, life... and the dream.
Remember, although torrider torrents in your bloodstream scream,
that wastrel is a life of poetry and travelling;
that faith, love, and even hope, are biochemical things.

Has life yet made a Medusa of Venus?
Has the fount offered anything to the worlds' thirsts?
Can you endure the cloudsongs of drowning sirens;
streaming, disassociated, faces of Gorgons?