G. C. Jeffers

I forgot about this poem. It is my response to Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead.

Rand and Roark

by Greg Jeffers

I wish you hadn’t so readily

slept in her dead arms.

Didn’t you feel the cadaver’s

iciness as she hollowly

sang a lying lullaby: words

of loneliness to the melody

of self-absorption?

She promised you a trail

of stardust dragging eyes

upward to upon a star.

Upon you. Shaker

of Heaven. Casting down

aesthetics, demanding the death

of the butterfly and the exaltation

of the ant.

She lied. You are locked

in pages, boud by ink

and type-face. Your integrity

is hers, the whole of your

person giving her arrogance

a manifestation. Though she

is dead, you never existed.

Coward.