Question For the Virgin Lovers
If only the window sound of leaves were March's.
Slicing these dark glass bouquets,
The ides stagger away after evening.
Compare promise over sorrow,
create something new, take over something false.
Brave Caesar, he is bruised & discontent.
Merchant, you see mercy just like him.
Lend your heart,
O merchant, toil not in vanity's field.
Valor, why did you build this pomp?
It has strained true reason.
Errors create the balm of summer;
ambition does nothing.
Day is frail when burned to night by slender philosphers,
with wanton eyes and skin of lust.
In friends of flesh,
love hath immense kin.
Circumstance consumes through fully dried romance.
Methinks she likes neither Romeo nor Juliet;
rather, always, Brutus,
for Art and Irony are gods to her.
Freshly ironed away, reducing wrinkles
that pervade her mother's sheets and face.
I am in an avenue morning,
where London is full of people and I am full of false grace.
The women dressed in my gaudy dreams
and men are filled to the brim with aurora borealis glimmers.
Let us fit the happy day with this.
Merely say yes
pray for goodbye.