There follow the unpainted portraits:
his face, my hands, 
blurred with passion,
firelight, brocade,
(speak you scorn softly, for milord's abed)
the golden chain of kingdom
draped on a bedpost
until suspicion turns his appetite to anger
and my grace to guile.

For out of the thought 
of the loss of love
comes fear
and from that fear
a wall 
and from that wall
all justified destruction 
maunders forth.

A	B	C	D	E	F	G	H	I	J
K	L	M	N	O	P	Q	R	S	T
		U	V	W	X	Y	Z

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