HOISTED BY HIS OWN PETARD.
Posted: Wed May 04, 2011 11:42 am
HOISTED BY HIS OWN PETARD
They called him ‘the impaler’, for he impaled women’s hearts
like captured butterflies for a collectors prize.
He feasted on their offerings, drained the colour from their souls
then ignored them for soiled goods he did despise.
When fresh and sweetly innocent, and untouched by human kind
they held attraction to this evilest of men,
but once they withered on the vine in his myopic pale blue eyes
they were not worthy of his time again.
One wet Sunday in winter the moment of truth arrived
when he gazed into a shop fronts misty glass
and saw reflected there an older man, gray haired and paunchy,
all alone - an old stallion - turned out to grass.
The strong glossy physique of which he had been proud and vain
was no longer there – it had faded away.
No young filly pranced beside him as he walked the city streets
and he knew not one now who with him would stay.
His days were gathering dust just like a butterfly collection,
the lofty star now a dry star set to implode.
All he had left were memories and fuzzy recollections.
Moment of truth – seems he had passed his use by code.
Maureen Clifford © 05/11
They called him ‘the impaler’, for he impaled women’s hearts
like captured butterflies for a collectors prize.
He feasted on their offerings, drained the colour from their souls
then ignored them for soiled goods he did despise.
When fresh and sweetly innocent, and untouched by human kind
they held attraction to this evilest of men,
but once they withered on the vine in his myopic pale blue eyes
they were not worthy of his time again.
One wet Sunday in winter the moment of truth arrived
when he gazed into a shop fronts misty glass
and saw reflected there an older man, gray haired and paunchy,
all alone - an old stallion - turned out to grass.
The strong glossy physique of which he had been proud and vain
was no longer there – it had faded away.
No young filly pranced beside him as he walked the city streets
and he knew not one now who with him would stay.
His days were gathering dust just like a butterfly collection,
the lofty star now a dry star set to implode.
All he had left were memories and fuzzy recollections.
Moment of truth – seems he had passed his use by code.
Maureen Clifford © 05/11