THE PRINCE IN HIS MAUSOLEUM by Peter Magliocco

The sun cries in me

Bringing morning light

To old dementia seeking me

Where lust never tastes

Sorrow’s song

There you are, in rubicund spirit,

Waiting in an airport lounge

For life’s madness to depart.

Reading about The Prince who seduced

Virgin interns running from reality (like us?),

Eclipsed finally by His dark, wind-sheared hand.

Ruling us in a summer of no-escape

Turn off your cell phone’s drama.

Purge please the world’s morbid images

Re-running on U-Tubes

Channeling flights of the mind’s discontent.

In this ground-zero lounge I simulated

Your lobotomy for grounded pilots

As the passengers watched

In time’s wingless mausoleum rusting

Sodden with your discarded matter,

& speckled by regal words of wonder

Your hyacinth eyes fatally cloud

His

Fallen

Majesty