The glass house

I have lived here for as long as I care to bear.
The vitreous walls now feel as emulating shards,
Redolent of my bittersweet fragrance.

I’ve seen the prodigal nightingale in inclement weathers,
Pouring her obdurate, imploring melody on                                                        The unaffected sweetbriar which flourishes in
The flawless blood of her falling babes.

I carry proudly her raw plumage on my hat,                                                        Strolling *satiated with ken of living* round                                                             My cumbersome haven of see-through.                                                                       Lithe and cogent, I yawp our story at every eventide.

I do not disdain the oppressive wrench of the sibyl                                          Who racks me with her guilt in this invincible epoch of                                        Facile milieus, nor do I nail with righteous catechisms                                          Her popular twin, the decadent minx.

I only beguile, disguised as cherub or succubus,                                                       With fatal lozenges of sentience, the ones kneeling                                                  In derision the genuine nature of the persecuted spirits,                                      Those who in cahoots condemn the undefiled.

I have lived here for as long as I bear to care.
The engirdling mirrors now feel as trusty reflections,
Pillaged carbuncles from my gory figure.

The photo’s source

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