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THE GILDED CAGE
THE GILDED CAGE (A Reflection on the Life of Oscar Wilde) By Stephen L. Harrison I. THE MASK A gilded cage he chose to frame, With lacquered lie and whispered name. Bunburying truths in perfumed phrase, Masking fire in drawing-room haze. He loved the game, the social art, The silver tongue, the guarded heart. Self-importance — a fragile shield Against a world that would not yield. ___________________________________ _____ II. THE SHADOW Two sons he knew, with faces bright, Yet risked their peace for private night. How many more in silence stayed, In secret rooms where bargains made Were later torn by judging eyes Beneath stern Victorian skies? ___________________________________ _____ III. THE SENTENCE The gavel falls — a hollow crack, A thousand eyes like needles in his back. The “Love that dare not speak” dragged bare, A trembling truth in public air. He stands a giant, shrunk to fit the box, As virtue preens its silvered locks. The gallery stirs — a muffled laugh, As virtue sharpens its epitaph. ___________________________________ _____ IV. THE CELL Six paces east, then six to west, The restless ghost within his chest. The ink has dried; the wit turned lime, Slow digestion by the gut of time. He tastes the salt of names untold, And feels his children’s silence cold. ___________________________________ _____ V. THE SILENCE The law was iron; he knew its weight, Yet wagered pride against his fate. Not love alone, nor law’s decree — But vanity’s own cruelty. And when the laughter thinned to dust, What remained was fractured trust. ___________________________________ _____ VI. THE DOOR Yet through the bars, a vision gleams— Beyond regret, beyond lost dreams. Though history’s ink may stain his name, The soul endures beyond the shame. A peacock’s plume, a poet’s word— Still echo in a world once stirred. The cage is empty; time has flown— But art remains, the truth his own.
A golden cage he chose to build, With polished lies and whispered names. Hiding truths in sweet words, Concealing passion in social settings. He enjoyed the game, the social skill, The charming speech, the cautious heart. Self-importance — a weak shield Against a world that wouldn't give in. He had two sons with bright faces, Yet risked their happiness for secret nights. How many others stayed silent, In hidden rooms where deals were made And later judged by others Under strict Victorian skies? The judge's hammer falls — a hollow sound, A thousand eyes like needles on his back. The forbidden love exposed, A trembling truth in public view. He stands tall, reduced to fit the box, As morality flaunts its polished hair. The audience stirs — a quiet laugh, As morality sharpens its final words. Six steps east, then six to west, The restless spirit inside him. The ink has dried; the wit faded, Slowly consumed by time. He tastes the bitterness of untold names, And feels his children's silent coldness. The law was harsh; he knew its burden, Yet gambled pride against his destiny. Not just love, nor the law's command — But vanity's own harshness. And when the laughter faded away, What remained was broken trust. Yet through the bars, a vision shines— Beyond regret, beyond lost hopes. Though history may tarnish his name, The soul lives on beyond the shame. A peacock's feather, a poet's word— Still resonate in a once-stirred world. The cage is empty; time has passed— But art remains, the truth his own.