On Regret

Oh Venus,
Shall I pray to you,
and make a heathen of myself
in front of the face
of my Lord, 'God';
to renounce his imposed patriarchy
in favour of your more feminine charms?
I have cracked
and cracked
my hard, outer, shell
and bled my milk on hands
that would form cups
and even on
that miserable ground
but never where I planted my seed
did that heart grow to fruition.
Never was there a bloom
to make shade for all my toil.
But where did beget
plumage for my work
was only a half-baked
shattered, sort of rhapsody
that soon left one all burnt
and violently crashing
unto the shores below;
a mad Icarus
who flew with false wings
and was left, body-broken
for pride and remorseful hope.