through the eyes of Mnemosyne\'s muse
twelve statues stand as one this Sunday \'morn
each one no more a memory of time.
it is here below the fountain of regret
with my cousins dressed in green askari skin
on vines of dear departed monograms,
one single rock where the black rook stands supreme
this day it seems more ivory
than the paperweight of laborious regime.
I have risen with the mule\'s design of vogue
held captive with a blue mole on my lip
hissing like a cobra in a dark brown overcoat.
it is almost time to sing and dance and scream;
I am all in white
as pale as snow with my hogshead full
of sacramental wine as dry as mud.
now the great flood flows it\'s waters through my veins
water-stained with a shamrock on it\'s skull
it has no heart to navigate
the red-mustard frills
that burn my ears a shade I envy most.
all words beyond repair
my lair of cotton
twinned with the second season of a lung.
my eyes now pink
my diary is full;