The synthetic bodies lure each other,
Unfortunately into a crinkling fight of crowns.
She was the maid, the other a princess.
Like two complementary understandings,
they are listening to bits and some sirens,
some horse neighing in a farm and
some bizarre jewels grittling around
each other’s neck.
They listen till it’s a dawn again
though the relief is seldom or If I say
There’s no coyness in either’s eyes
just a smudgeness to win him over
through a final euphony
in the gusting sky.
But one is a maid, the other a princess.
Like two hearts with no blood,
they hand their hands to each other’s pain
and go on a vacation.
The companion falsed each lady’s shadow
but the serendipity was meant to baffle
and calm the songs of lame passion
to a lovely tale of kinship.
For The Sunday Whirl