Antistrophe

The grinding wheels of fortune — have had the audacity to curse me with blessings,

Blessings autochthonous — by those passing through the forked pendulum — my tongues auctioning of my oneiric endeavors.

Unearned, deconstructed by my hands, my footing lost upon the sacrificial pyre of —

Fickle fortune, casts her lots and grinds them to course gilings,

dust that residually dines on the bones that structured their funerary ossuary.

Fortune, ever changing, veiled beneath the enigmas of mental abandon, — blessings in disguise.

Under the guise of tortured blessings my birth star cursed to never enter the domed sanctuary — where the cries of the soul of my empty womb, lights the oil lamp of misfortune.

I too, in memory will be blessed with the carved symbols of my name upon the ancient stones of archaic theoretical lectures — a curse I envy none, that dare to decipher its lament.

Blessed with the curse of oral discourse, a memory suspended by the vexations of the day, those who blessed me — cursed me to ruination within the refrain of Pindaric Ode,

I’d bless you with a stanza, but I fear I’d curse you with the memory of a senile word plucked from the triad.

A word in shadow the ode cursed to the realm of incompletion, the tempestuous flame shames the whistled curse that blew out halved breaths the into the lungs of misfortune molded in my image.

Antistrophes measure — Meander’s key my labyrinth.

Copyright ©. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. 2020. All Rights Reserved.