An old matron came by the billet dead in the night.
My stares did not seem to distract her; how curious -
how her gown remained at rest as she pulled nearer;
that she knew her purpose, dignified, almost vicious.

Then right across from me, she draped upon a seat;
her gown gently quivered like the bell of a jellyfish.
Now I observed her face, the frown she wore, and lost count
of all the thin shadows the starlight chose to stitch.

Her nose then descended to usher two full moons bright,
that pierced my breath and froze time in that moment.
The clock slurred and slept, and left me pining for its ticks,
while I heard her speak, clear white but also solemn.

"Why do you judge?" An unforgiving probe, more so
for it was confusing and wrought topfull with questions.
"Surely it is to make a choice" - I exhaled it like a criminal,
"So I make fewer mistakes" - an unmistakable confession.

A pause, no reaction. Yet I heard a chaotic disapproval
drumming when I swallowed - surely my heart's doing.
Her head crept forth, and polluted, "What did you mean
when you say, 'My wings, they do not branch - they ruin'?"