I live in a land of ice

and mirth and explicit premise.

I'm starving, but I don't hunger

for your glittering glory.

You are no better than Troy,

trading gold for flesh,

lives for legends, blood

for beauty, always fighting

the ever war, the last rape.

Even death is not enough

to put an end to it.

You bring soldiers wrapped

in linen and thick red noise,

the tail feathers of black swans.

You carry all the bizarre debris

of your exotic rampage

through the annals of myth.

The sun on the dial sends

its dicrotic whisper

across the square—

lyres & silk arras,

stolen armor and lies,

a necklace of blue gems

about a columnar throat,

stone facades etched

in bas-relief by

the forced accents

of your applause.

Be careful who you follow

into the ruins that

line the ancient city;

I've died a hundred times

beneath its walls

to preserve my honor.

Beware the bite

of the old dog

that welcomes you home.