Sunday, October 4, 2009

The Rape of Proserpina

Oh, Bernini, I think you may have some things wrong.
I see what you were trying to do, but
          Instead it was a disservice
There was no rape, you see
His strong hand gripping my marble thighs
          Was not violent, but passionate
He touched my virginal body
I kissed his cold, stone lips
I clutched at his back, my fingers tangled in his black hair
The tears so gracefully carved were tears of ecstasy
He was my lover, not my captor
His heart has always been mine alone
                                       Your art is beautiful
                                                 But your storytelling is very poor

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