adventures in dysthymia

Monday, June 20, 2011

Pride

I have worshiped at the altar
of pride, the greatest sin,
sin of the great, or those who would
believe themselves to be.

I was but a slave who thought
I had set myself free,
deluded, drunk on life's sweet wine,
this world's heady din.

Pride held up its empty mirror
and I, a fool, was flattered
to see myself so nobly stand
against oppressive God.

I had done no more than choose
another master's rod.
that mirror holds no more deceptions;
with me, it now lies shattered.

Stephen Brooke ©1970

Now this is a really old one, written when I was twenty. It has many faults, the faults of a youthful writer. My newer poems have the faults of an old writer, of course!

The rhymes and structure are adequate, I suppose, but perhaps boring. Same with the vocabulary. It's too complete as it stands, too much a finished piece from that time in my life, to do anything more than spruce it up a little and send it forth to live with the rest of my poetry.

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