A simple night by far.
A thoughtful sigh
at hates left on
your plate.
Aye, on your plate.
Fabric at your thigh
aligned too simply.
A risk among the strict,
starred eyes stray
for trysts, careening
fingers twist
and softly sigh.
I pledge to refrain from using it in anything that’s punny. Though it drives me to despair…
These are the things
(you know) with wings,
that still get in the way.
The slattern brings
a higher means,
sets nobler laws in play.
These are.
These scenes.
These simple dreams
of maps as cabaret.
So sing and wait
for duller days,
as such, someone
must pay.
Crazed,
the hidden mass.
Dazed kids,
their hazel ids
an energetic blaze.
Self, a potent
maskerade.
The hazy maiden skips
unstable states.
Feste's Lute 