One more midsummer's eve, just one,
and then I shall become
some pale and ill-fated maiden, bound in the chain links of rosaries in milord's cavernous prayer hall.

Wearing a bride's opal ring, like a teardrop from heaven.
Some infernal dove wept for me
and I boast it on my left ring finger.

Woes hang close. Mine weight me like a tea chest's worth of knotted pearls, or a bridal corset laced marvellously tight.
I flash and darken like a jewelled dragonfly,
dizzied by my own light show, never pausing for breath.

The candle stubs burn weak now.
In the shivery dawn light,
the night air still hangs close and heavy,
Like a thick cloak of regal velvet that I may don
and in doing so disappear forever;
mute, placid, lovely,
a shadow.