Analysis of Tenor Haste

In her tenor haste reared the mare,
Floating over the field,
Long past the arable grange she ran,
Yearning her leman’s yield.

The ghoul of forgone conclusions pass,
Right through the proselyte’s mind.
He falls to his knees in desperate prayer,
Begging Moira to be kind.

Duly dancing to the sun,
The blossom made a choice,
Never to be cruel or rough or mean,
To the dregs lowly voice.

The Morrigan shook her head and thought,
At her mortal’ simple plights,
Why they go to mosques and shrines,
Their motives full of spite.

They pray to Sunday, light, and moon,
When all these gods are used,
To illude themselves.
To dupe and jive.
Their choices are confused.

There’s nothing man will not destroy,
No motive suzerain,
Genetic is the damage born,
The familial cocaine.