Poetic Interlude XI

I. 

A warrior fed on meat and milk,

So that your limbs are gold,

And all your voice is honey-red,

My hungry heart is sold.

A prophet in finest linen,

Light in your marble smile,

With cautionary grace and skill

You sit and talk awhile.

A king in his good galleries,

And Oh, I am one held

Awe-struck at the face and form

That in this spirit meld.

 .................................

 II. 

Time follows patterns

Of life to death to life,

Endlessly washing earth

In waves of pain and strife.

But joy follows behind

On silent, subtle feet

As if to soothe the corpses

Produced by self-defeat.

No one can truly estimate

The likelihood of chance

When the goddess takes the warrior

Into eternal dance.