Throbbing in intoxication
They wait with silent expectation
For a climax staged so long ago
That the tears they shed have flown away
From Psyche’s solitary grave.
Yet the inner serpent heralds hope
And they slumber in their thralling ropes
As the Pantomime is for them staged
Oh hold! Asphyxiate that rage.
And yet still one with silent tread
Freed long ago of wine and bread
Stalks softly down their vacant halls
As devotion morphs into revulsion…
And from that swiftly fading nation
The Rose attains emancipation.