Thursday, July 1, 2010

Untitled

All but her, sashayed through
Nothing to evoke guilt
When they fought over lime-stones
With a dash of filth

The profane Prussian hue
The prurient summer sky
The pharisaical turbid ale
The pragmatic’s divine vale

All but her, marched on
With the grunt of swine
Piqued by the nocturnal overtures
A faint fleeting green smile

Amidst the mob, did she stand?
Did the conjurer start his juggle?
Was the veneer red and bright?
Or did they mistake her visage?

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