Truemors
She was desperate years from happiness
A maiden not majestic, but fair
A monument of incongruous intentions
which might stay together if forced
The air of the bar, of needs- superstitions
Sincerity cannot be coerced.
If the fox chased the hound absent Aesop to morph it
Would either rebuke the finality
But when Job’s cave was found and his candle stayed lit
He must have held the pain and the pedigree.
She said “I need only a savior
My prince I’ve let down my long hair.
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