In April is an orifice
That asks to my chagrin,
Will curtains rise-above my thighs-
Or settle at my shin?

If all the world's a stage, but still,
To thine own self be true,
When I am nigh-to passerby-
My role is what I rue.

Their lashes served as reference points,
Like street lamps losing light,
Immune suppressed-they would request-
Another stab at sight.

Now air will always intervene,
We never coincide,
All parallel-except for Belle-
Her standards set aside.

A walking shadow I should be,
To strut and fret no more,
A silhouette-I shan't regret-
Whose face is but a floor.


My partner in this pirouette,
The setting of the sun,
And to be bled-a king sized bed-
A dream that is outdone.

The freedoms that I wielded once,
Stacked up against the sky.
Each fallacy-a galaxy-
To which I say goodbye.


Their cobwebs are incredulous
That I should ever come;
The only soul-I would extol-
Exacerbates their sum.

For if I should dismantle them
With knives laid end to end,
Unsex me here-is so austere-
Their lives I can't defend.