"Poetry is, at bottom, a criticism of life." ~~ Matthew Arnold
No! Walk away. Go back to the shadows.
Gone is the sun that made the flower bloom.
He turned his back, hid behind the moon,
And, so, she disappeared into her sheath of folds.
Strong were his hands that could not hold her;
In that short summer, she cloaked him with her ether;
Her sweet aroma lingered before she fell.
No! Do not look up. He will blind you.
Don’t throw rocks at her windows;
She was plucked and set in glass, on a pedestal,
Next to more glass where his arms stretched,
Longing to embrace the full sweep of her summits.
Naked, she stood in a sea of shining diamonds
And iridescent pearls created by his hands.
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