Reading 'The Monk' as I have to,
lying on bed, but truth-telling,
remembering your voluptuousness
and what we did with it,
I go downstairs to get the kitchen clean.
The vaulted sunlight's given way to rain:
a rain that leaches out my hate;
a rain that covers dearth of tears.
...
Scimitar of moon outfaced
by Venus - never such a one I saw before;
and all the little huffs of cloud that proudly
pass and veil between -
ah, these are thee and me and all.
....
But give me much more mutability.
Let now me smear these sorrows in
volcano ribs racked with extra chili,
company of my sweetest baby.
...............................
'Nought may endure but Mutability' - P.B. Shelley