Monday, January 27, 2014

How strange the lace

How strange — the lace, the hair,
the sweat upon her neck,

her scent, her demanding, yielding air,
the daring play of feints parried

and exchanged — that she’d confide in me
her end, and what she meant

by smiling, saying,



Jan said...

Oh what a tangled web we weave,
when first we practise to deceive...

But in the end, they lived happily ever least they do in many fairytales.

Loved this, William...truthfully~

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Jan. A grand deception, to which both agreed; such it was, at least, in this strange dream.