After reading Shelley’s ‘Ozymandias’ in bed,
My lashes fluttered, eyelids closed,
So I lay down my weary head.
In vivid dreams the poet took me by the hand:
I was the traveller in an antique land.
He led me across the expansive desert, showed me
In a distant place two vast and trunkless legs of stone,
And nearby another relic that chilled me to the bone:
Half sunk in sand, a shattered face, a sneer
Of cold command in its wrinkled lip and frown,
And on the pedestal, below the statue’s feet,
The name of Ozymandias, King without a heart.
© Kim M. Russell, 2016
Image found on www.awesomestories.com
Michael has asked us to weave a tale in which you as a traveller are lost in a foreign city and you find help from an unlikely source. I have taken words and phrases from Shelley’s poem in a ‘found’ poem of my own.