The Making of a Prince I: I Named Her Sybella
The verve in her eyes, unseeing
The veins in her hands, clogged
The plethora of colors in her skin
Thaws in a concoction—a melancholia
She knelt in a prayer, weeping
Before adamant caryatids, fringing
Her horizon, it was hers,
I windwalked and trespassed
Her veil of secrecy, profoundly
Bore her my eyes, empathically
I desire to tell her of bliss—
How it lingers around and about
For those who desire it, but
I saw the cairn and candles
She tussled and endeavored:
A grave for all her hopes,
And for all my words, hushed
I picked her up like a blossom
Drifted from her garden and
I knew I know not to speak
To tell her that I know her
For her eyes was a sleeping mirror
And it shines and lust and sheen