(a very long time ago. i praised bewtween
two great poets)
from a hill i caught the last verses
of Will Shapespeare
— a paintful story from a sistering vale,
so silky moment with no end this double voiced
accorded, and lay my head within the biggest bosom
of any woman: a sad-tuned tale; my perfection
is a twisted selection that tangles souls; above
her head barbettes and torques of misty streets
so ancient from then to now: a favour of plaits worn
on each side of the face.
beauty and love are not aligned.
it moves with seasons of eonic time.
:: 08..02.2020 ::