I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed re-interpreting classic works, as I had done in a few blog posts months ago. Then I came across the following anonymous Victorian poem.
Here is my attempt to emulate it with a somewhat darker theme:
There’s anemic, jaundiced chatter
Unconcerned with joy or strife
That’s dispelled by language from your eyes,
Filled with ardent thirst for life.
In the abyss before and after
Human tastes of wind and fire,
No one waits to know, much less to meet
Our insatiable desire.
An infant, unfamiliar with
Its new, corporeal jail,
Must punctuate an unseen glance
With a mighty, futile wail.
There’s a demon will beneath it
And through youth it gains in power
‘Til it meets the gaze of servants
Like they’re stood beneath a tower.
And through labor in its presence
They shall win a cherished prize
In the passion both consumed and grown
By the hunger of speaking eyes.