The Mind Engirthed

Lithe be the scythe on a Monday morning,
A Trifle tad slow to Neanderthals.
I girth myself with a belt of leather,
When in circles I listen to the calls;
Dizzied their putrid effect on my
Mind's memory, stifled by this affect
Of monstrosity known as lady sigh.
By what means does a mean slow man protect
Himself from the stare of a pincing girl,
Set upon him in the gripping snow? How
Shall he deflect her piercing gaze? O Earl,
You have nowhere to hide! You are a sow,
Backed into a corner, the knife is raised
Above the sun's blinding ray's and it falls
Swiftly like the dart of nightfall; unfased
Is she who hunts you, as you in your thralls
Of pain and agony call out to wind,
Wind that is unsympathetic to your
Dire need, that struck you down. For you have sinned,
And though no man advise lady sigh gore
You in the side with cruel hate, no man
Will disuade her from her spate. The small girth
Of her arm heaves behind her a great fan
Of hatred and spite that brings a furies
Delight, the anticipation of mirth,
The flurry of a snow storm as flurries
Begin to accumulate on one's brow.
So has she lifted up her bow to smite
Your ear with memories distaste, a frow
Upon her eyes of bitter spring that light
Up as she contemplates your inmost being
As snuffed out from the universe she walks.
So shall any man who seeks her, or talks
Of seeking her be put down by his sin...
If in seeking her he does not seek to win
Her heart along with her beauteous
Form of pearl and golden sheen.

           The Mind Engirthed (c) Luke Bennette, November 2012