Prosperous dreams, like Prospero’s schemes off Antonio gleaned;
obvious breadth in the deep breaths drawn before sinking beneath the surface of a pool cooling in the summer’s crest;
chest out-turned, pounding with each step, subtle in its drama that sets aflutter the heart behind her breast;
to the death, two duelers fighting over faintly feelings,
conversing with each other in the dalliance of awkward dealings.
Sealed in solitude, sly stubborn mule,
styled in revile but gauged in the rank and file piled in a perilous upbringing,
fortunate in freedom, unfathomable in flattery,
stocked in the internal and the question, “what is wrong with me?”
“What hath thou brought for me?” Asks a deity that craves attention,
which is nothing more than wisps of smoke upon a moment’s odd reflection;
an a suspect’s introspection at the unction occultly occupying
the lines that she had once denied but prized on a cloudy night’s convention.