Ink into feather,
feather onto parchment,
ink seeps from the feather,
ink onto parchment.

It would be such a tasteful tale
to be ostentatious in their eyes,
to choose what side of me
they see.

It's so garish,
but so, so conspicuous;
it's absurd, it's futile
to try and hide it.

What a legend it would be,
to be anything but me;
what a fable it would be
to live life perfectly.

Why are my foibles so seen,
where has my integrity been?
This can't be fair, can it?
Why can't I live perfectly?

I didn't notice the transition
when I lost track of my age, the time;
I was always the eldest of five,
but my soul was always older than me
because of pain,
hence the wisdom.

I would've thought that now,
these words would be slander,
proof of my shortcomings;
I should have had vigilance!
I should have taken time to heed!

But no,
I let the soft feeling of desirable comfort
worm it's way into my chest;
it feels ever so iniquitous,
ever so lovely.

Your hand comes to caress my cheek,
to cradle my face,
but when I show doubt laced within my smile,
your hand returns to the blade in your sheath;

Oh, well, life is such.

I play my bowed lyre,
my mind not quite clear,
albeit I did not imbibe.

Chagrin is strummed
as I tell myself the tales
of my trysts.

Now I sit near the hearth
watching the log lessen in size,
turning to ash.

I cannot elude this aberration,
I feel the forlorn tug of my heartstrings;
my meretricious panoply of remorse shall stay within me
until my heart has become turgid with sorrow,  
until I cease to roam this world.

'Thou art tardy,' said I.

'I belongeth not to you, and now I must brave the sea,'

'I shan't let you, no! You speak balderdash!'

'You doth protest too much, I should have been long gone minutes since,'

'This is punitive!'

'Goodbye, may good fortune tend thy days.' said my lady.

She roams hills and the verdurous woodlands
and on each eve of the new moon,
she follows the river,
making merry and becoming drunk with mead-

She had wanted to be with bairn,
to have man, woman or child accompany her through the forest,
but she only knew the fawn-

Alas, as she fled her role as royalty
when the King and Queen were born a daughter,
she wished upon a jolly gay key of brass
that they would birth a son.

And so they did,
with good luck and omens,
she would celebrate not with a record of vinyl,
but with the strum of a harp and the song of quail.