The wealth of your hair sits like horns brimmed
from the pale fires of time—
Jangling, be the symmetry of your cresses,
like the plots of my numberless dreams.
You’re the rusty spike of a helm:
a majesty to be lauded.

The cheers of my reverence are easily bartered
at the coldest of regal delights;
enthralled, I am,
like a muse without alternative;

I’m enslaved to the
pedestal stairs, my weary feet won’t
let me ascend the mantle—
to the chandelier glare of your eyes,
and the herald boom of your voice;
Reine Antoinette has nothing on the vanity of you,
for I can’t storm the bastille— I am the bastille,
safe, I only am, at the glass slippers
on your feet, at midnight’s call, you’ll be
little girl with no ball to go to.


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