My Lady, So Fair

Thine beauty speaks
Of amber atrocities
Raises questions like
A heathen's deities.

'Cross silver maze
Lies the ugly, scorned
Upon thy pretty breast
No sin is mourned.

Doth pain exist for thee?
An illusion of mind
Thy glamour conquers all
Through hope, wind, and time.

Thine beauty sings
Of deservéd praise
From dusk 'til dawn
To the end of days.