Ouroboros

 

I once had features fine

Twice had talents divine

Thrice fortunes to be spent

For now, I’ve grief persistent

 

Though before this one I was a reclining Rubenesque

But I began it all blue-bodied with a pin-cushion crest

Yet another age I was surely a fashionable fox

Up to now, I’m an alien-at-home paradox

 

Too, a Ben Franklin hairdo fellow and still I’m ne’er-do-well low

Also, my Mayan warrior didn’t mind the humid heat I hate so

Withal, men or women of letters—perhaps I’ve read their books

Simultaneously somehow, I feel another’s regrets, debts, and dreary outlooks

 

In Edinburgh, I was robed in red face and garment,
sensing a hand in

In Australia, I was an Egyptian explorer entombed,
voyaging a band therein

In Bavaria, I was in love and loved,
romancing a grand kith and kin

All in all anyhow, I’ve lost sway and swagger,
becoming a hinterland carpet traveller within

 

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IMAGE: Flying Carpet by Viktor Vasnetsov

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