Sweet Indolence (poem)

Three spectres on a Grecian Urn-

No – that is unfitting.

Rather, three ghosts in the night,

Pass by my shelter.

At first glance, I know them.

Dearest Poesy leads the march,

Showing little love for inaction.

A protest of wills, of goals.

Frightening Ambition soon follows,

Bickering of what could be great.

“You could be Keats!”

Shy an indirect love drifts behind,

As fickle as she is,

She demands action,

The donation of ink.

Second glance, I know them not.

Bandages wrap around them,

Perfume is sprayed,

But Death's scent remains.

Preserved to defeat time,

But all methods fail.

Bandages fall and burn,

Revealing the monster beneath.

Poesy, once a fair maid, now decayed,

Repulsive like the thought of separation.

A step back-

But she comes closer.

Ambition seizes my attention.

She bends her head.

From her ears pour dread,

Dead butterflies,

Suffocated from capture.

Love has changed not.

Rather, she has broken my facade.

Her eyes dart about,

Indecisive and absolutely fickle.

Potentials appear, and she shows me

myself. Rushing from one,

To another,

To another,

To another,

Without end,

Except for death.

I risk not a third glance.

Indolence may do this,

But Love remains as such.

She is my heart,

Fully intact, but full of explosives.

Fickle in deciding who to be the victim,

Determining them all.

Ambition may release the living,

And allow them to fly.

Just as Poesy may change again,

Into a fair maid.

But Love, my Love,

Will forever be like this:
Indolent and fickle.

-Zero