Feste's Lute

It is not a question of how the dress falls.
It’s a question of turns,
and dressing screen shadows;
of ribbon and bow.

In a tragedy of emphasis and light
where the allure must draw
ever behind the fancy
of a silhouette.

His eyes darkened by the shadow that intimates
and never enlightened.
For all sirens project
from bosom not heart.

And in their ample airs entrance and deceive
to fervour authentic
but they lay beneath seas
cov’ring innocence.

Out from behind! Let knowing caress of voice
fold screen and bolden touch
where all is soft admission
and trustful embrace.