the prelude

Bang your head against the wall,
fall for reasons that slip out of your grasp,
Only to later beck and call.
And always like the ways,
the stench of putrid days
One stares at burnt bottoms of pans,
While somewhere a pantomime plays.
Numbers on the pages that you hold,
The clammy dungeons,
the cold monster stands scythe-handed
for your life is sold.
Like the golden harvest, the silver snow,
The frail-eyed doe
Who beckons out in pleas that fall
Silently on Ovid's shores.
The lullaby from the mouth
That silently shouts
And sticks out a tongue to lick your face
Into a mesmerizing doubt.

What a start to the beginning.