That iota of unsung joy, her philippic try of diatribe,
she escalates the tirade, its intolerable cries,
still ringing mire in disremembered comprise.
Alas, its compromise thats decides,
chides in mourning, in romance - she susurrates;
but murmurs in desperation, her eyes.
Ah weakness! Of threats and what else?
In withdrawal, helpless and piqued;
with lacerated lust, we'd misinterpret.
Love, go lave, sluice your mien, wear that expression
that spruces you unclean.
And return, skirting that wicked satire,
of fallen amour in our fake empire.
