How are you to me, what I see when I’ve turned and my blind eye’s shaded.
Centered over wraps of imagery, luring indifferent visions…I cast my merry unto the world and whence I starve as trussed within my golden mantle.
Every time what stranger pleads their love, a song for a verse my heart bleeds…for where is my verse and not a song come direct from another’s love?
Is there so much of thine, some fancy you anticipate which I need your gifts? Does the crystal not hum whilst we dance in this winter everglade of my masque; our favorite theme as are so many comes with a stolen kiss?
Ye traipse around my riches, such luxuries thence you buy but not I, forewarned though not soon enough…for it cannot buy my happiness.
This poet’s alive for your special gifts, dressed as I in fame but never better than a human being…longing for warmth and compassion, and a heady slight from gain only to achieve this love.
My idea, this gentile, a primary affection over mind and expectations, can not I have this as well as thee our mutual desire?
Or does a poet speak in riddles after one too many glasses? *Looks into her glass, frowning slightly*.
