Inge Haupt
Chewing CudArchive for devil
The Tea-Leaf Reader – A Sonnet – Part 1
Come in, come in. I shall tell you my tale.
A parable of the ages of man.
Those who live, those who die, who succeed and who fail.
A tale that through aeons will span.
Come closer, draw near. Don’t be coy or shy
Of a tale the faculties to enthral.
Look into the glass and open your eyes
To saints and seraphs and sinners and all.
There is a child, no idea of the crime,
With her dolls and fantastic creations.
There lurks the dragon, malicious design.
In her hands is the fate of the nations.
Her life we shall mind, from birth unto death,
As evil and virtue war in her breast.
A Fairytale
Duplicitous dragon licking his wounds,
Crouched in the back of his lair.
He’d been waiting for her from beginning
Of time, relishing her fall through his snare.
Following gaily the apple blossoms
Carpeting the forest floor;
She wound her way up the steep mountainside,
Trailing vestments of light from times of yore.
He smelt her as she drew closer, tendrils
Of flame ignited his grin.
Dry, brittle scales sithed ‘neeth wing and tail;
With blackest mind’s eye he beckoned her in.
Foliage grew moist under silken-shod feet.
The sunlight began to fail.
Apple blossoms fell few and far between,
But there was yet a faintly gleaming trail.
He spied her through his age-old Awwim eyes.
Seeds of evil he did sow.
Slowly but surely, strongly and swiftly
Apples of damnation began to grow.
Princess did you seek this den of malice?
Why did you drink from the chalice of sin?
‘Twas your burden, your plight, for the sake of
Mankind, to usher the saviour in.
The Dark One
No God, no devil, no light.
She’s an orphan in fields of grey.
Kierkegaard offers no hope or respite;
The Saviour, the Buddha, no joy of enlight
And death comes only her soul to forsake.
This is the child born of malice and spite.
No divine creation, no genetic mutation,
A fallacy of love, consecrated delight.
Her hollow soul longing to be filled:
A cavity feeding rapacious on love, lust and desire.
Nor Antony, Nor Caesar could placate her dire need,
Nor Osiris, nor Oberon, nor Trojan fire,
Nor Juno’s ire.
For the Romans still come and ransack your beauty,
Desecrate your idols. The Templars bring mutiny.
And you walk through the streets trailing your shadow of grey
And your tears cannot fall on your pale, cold skin;
For they would assuage the sorrow of your soul,
Bring God, man, even Satan to sate your genetic un-whole.
But now, pale creature; nymph that walks in the ombre
Feeding off love and ether in empty, cold bars.
The great Roman generals lured and drawn in
By the gleam of your eyes, the flush of your skin,
The curve of a tress round a diamond-clad ear.
Unbeknownst on the threshold of darkness they stand,
Where your soul is ash, falling year by year
Through the sieve of time.
Hold onto your beauty, glorious child of no Lord
For that is all your sire could afford.
