Full Circle

Her mind devoured cadences. The sound
of poems she'd recite with quiet skill,
ensured her eyes would close; and she'd be found
transported by a stanza hanging still,
where she could memorise it and incite
sweet verses captured, (trained and so adored),
in vellum bindings, exceeding delight
in any prose: all balance was deplored...

Given her taste for sonnets and the lines
of greats like Keats and other fine romantics,
delivered in her rich voice: this inclined
the world to listen, taking in a mix
of well-loved poems, swirling in a head
that led her on and certainly empowered
new inspirations that, indeed, seemed dead,
before the taste of cadences was soured...

Then, each verse she heard became torment:
a vicious parasite to be exposed;
while silences were blessed in this foment
of ugly forms. Soon her muse was deposed
and, in its place, the harpies shrieked and mewled.
Cacophonies like this made her despair.
These horrid concerts played on. They had fuelled
a hatred that was noxious. Yes, she'd care...

The very hint of it could make her feint,
but walk away, for anyone to find
the debris left behind, with which to taint
the tattered chap-book, that had once defined
her loves, her joys and her delirium
in the poetic beauties she'd seen flowered;
but, now, were locked away: she'd taste no crumb
or memory of cadences devoured...