You retreated to my domicile,
wistful to escape the mundane verities
within the
fragrance of intoxicating leaf that
once reached for the vitality of the sun.
And so the quasilife it once was given,
seeps in to wrest the imbroglio
of compunction and tedium for
respite of living death that grows
like a cancer
with each morning breath of lost hope
you take to meet the capacity of your
existence;
exhaling not of victory to sight
of forenoon light of new day that slips for
the passing of vitreous plates,
meticulously
placed for your view from that which sequesters
you from espial
of victors fleeting by in their
rhythm of satiety; with vestures
they so primp to be indicative
of what volition that was brought
to serve as practical means for
survival with the metier they sought.
You thought it fitting for you and I
to be the modern portrait of an
egotism of two,
so that swains with jostling-by eyes
could descry and soliloquize,
"there is a precious love."