Friday, December 12, 2008

La Belle Dame sans Amour

He saw her pass by
Crossing with familiar rush
A figure caught in strobe

A tree stripped bare in the Fall
Like watercolor blotting badly,
Rouge melting on pudgy skin

Is that she? He asked
Surely not she, he thought
There unmasked in stark light

He loved her truly
They all did, too
Who asked you? She said

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