Mappa Mundi

She walks in, and I think of that house.
A smell of antiquity, and Egypt.
She wears rubies from Asia, and curtains from France.
Yet she suffers, what once was tall and worldly,
is now sullen and begging.
To this day, I respect and dare not compete.
I probably should. Casting a shadow in the
recesses of commerce, unknown
and applying henchmen from far away lands.
Geniuses in their own way, yet a mess of
conservative immaturity. Such is the culture of some,
such is the mess of centuries of inhumanity.

But I am not swayed. There is a light, crawling
through the gel-like underbrush
of the dark recesses of my dungeon.
Peeking through the Royal Blue.
It is stark and I dive in searching.
Should have brought a boogie board,
it's disgusting in here.
Somehow I find the boards of retreat and
take refuge in the plastic dust collection. Idle.

In this we find this pauper and the wife of Pizzaro,
strangely detached from each other,
eyes shifting in the hallways of the status quo.
There is only a need to embrace which neither understand.
Thus the two remain.
Cribbed.
Similar minds in endless passing,
which is halted abruptly
with the declaration of a stronger brand efficiency.