The Countess Close
The violet tress of clover blossom,
marks the countess' winter solemn.
Her sorrow,
her cardinal wanton
for her prince,
falsely in prison.
There is no respite to her yearning.
There is no satiation to her craving.
There is no solvency to her predilection.
There is no end to her attraction.
There is no limit to her aspiration,
for her prince falsely in prison.
Her womb, her castle;
her vessel for seas
all barren wantonly.
Her ire turn rage.
Her wisdom lost sage.
For her prince caught trickily,
placed falsely in prison.
She thrusts her fists at the gyre.
She spins insults into coarse wire.
She wears poultices upon her attire.
Her paces a failed amble.
Her songs bell book and candle.
All to respite and retire,
her work to free entire,
her prince falsely in prison.
But times sands grow heavy on her face,
that turned to fright.
Her garden grows weeds then blight.
Her beauty fades from tensions tight.
Her loneliness becomes vulgar each night.
Her stolen union vanquished by mages.
Her desires robbed in vista mazes.
She stumbles through tomes and pages.
Lost now she babbles to rhythmic chorus.
Casts her blood and bruises;
casts her spirit into blazes.
Casts her lot where her grave's cleave raises.
Now no longer can she impart creation,
for her prince falsely in prison.
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