The labored rise of her Aegean heart
papered her dappled silted skin with love pigments
Dusty ash marbled a brailed language on her breasts
Antiquity speaks of woman born to have no proclivity
to inherit the immortal mark of the indestructible
The Mask of Agamemnon will adorn but once
when the last breath sighs the long drowse
Sleep of all ages composed by the cosmic fugue
Her rock is he that owns his heart to bequeath to her
Leaning into the backbone of the labyrinth of destiny
they are the silhouettes of our ancestral muse
He is her faithful buttress for her fertile raiment
She is the cloth of life and he is the frame it lays upon
Woe to those who defile the true scales of balance
I saw the ’ lean on me ’ as a mutual arrangement.
The mask is a funeral mask.
And that it also speaks of our own mortal ways being no matter what the colour of our skin we all have the same fate.
It is off course open for interpretation but that is the essence of this write.
We balance each other…