He was the goddess.
The deathly, despairing, harbinger of death.
Held by crooked key and grievous shaft.
Commanded all dominating, fearful thought.
Come hither, you stalwart son of Zeus, your high and bending head
strapped down to the misery of the deep.

The wrath of worldly goods is a sharp edged sword.
Incapable of dominating thought,
haughty slave maids delivering the final death blow.
With arrested attention of mere automation.
the brain of the king rages,
with misery of mages,
cutting down the wisest concerns.

For even if Monet crafted text,
and lecture halls produced an image,
an ungentle heart is confounded
by the fog of foaming, ungazing eyes.
Electric forgiveness is no kamasutra;
and unlike reassertion,
we idealize diversion.
Don't let Jack pull your strings.