Star-dogged moon,
Centaurs forbade:
They will enter soon,
That rogue’s red charade.

Mischief managed?
Perhaps, maybe not.
Extra baggage,
Or love gone to rot?

Whatever was lost
In that woebegone soul,
It’s what it cost
That dug him his hole.

With Judas,
Brutus,
And Cassius,

Forgone of love.
Tormenting later,
Torn in the jaws at the center of
Hell’s icy waters.




A/N: I know I've seen poems shorter than this on the Top Ten section, but the system, in all it's mechanical glory, has informed me this is too short by a dozen or so words. I've already made it up with this paragraph, but it would be an injustice to get through like this (and possibly get me in trouble).

Here's a few neat quotes that can be put in a provoking context with this poem.

"There is no den in the wide world to hide a rogue. Commit a crime, and the earth is made of glass. It seems as if a coat of snow fell on the ground, such as reveals in the woods the track of every partridge and fox and squirrel and mole."

"Men suffer all their life long, under the foolish superstition that they can be cheated. But it is as impossible for a man to be cheated by any one but himself, as for a thing to be and not to be at the same time."

--Ralph Waldo Emerson