It's a sort of dialogue between a pretty, down-to-earth gal and a narcissist who (as the speaker) envisions everything in fantasies of early modern chivalry, hence the overblown style.
Successful swords, who find their mark,
Pierce not like needles fed from cherub’s heart.
For mine doth lay, so hidden away
Within a quiet nook of dust,
Whose glinted blade sat sullied in unrust.
Fair, foul, feminine creature, O’, divine for me
My future's intimacy– of soul, body, blood and mind;
Leave not yourselves to brutish apes
Who fight with vicious swinging fists,
Yet lack the hands for tender trust
Earned, by rights, by thy virtue’s sweet courtier,
And in most modest airs of chivalry.
I live and die in great service of beauty’s charity,
If my breath doth sweeten thee completely.
“Depth of a mudded puddle, thou
Knows not of the sins of man;
Sweet in most excess is sickly,
Seeming a hive in most
Golden attire
One hand upon a cup of nectar
Fulleth over
As sticky fingers blanch its shine.
I think, I think, I dare not dream of dad nor mum,
nor therein the birthed Christ the son,
If by chance thine marriage bed
Whence underneath the cogs divine its industry,
in the heart’s truth of enginery,
Sits a wound of inscribed red.
Oh, I wish, I wish upon those
Constellated orbs,
To swing their glared apricities
Away from my dark territories,
The spires and clock towers casting shadow
Unceasing over this enclosed meadow.
A quiet space, divined by you
In airs of shelter from the greying hue
Of raindrops, thick and fast, might
Hold long against the storm; o’,
though my endurance bloodies by the dimming light,
I hope my fountain fain will yet quench your fears tonight.
“I hear, I hear the patter of snares
Gone marching softly the rooftop bare,
Punctus contra punctum
With the pounding in your chest,
In tones so low it slips through your throat
Or seized by the quake in your bones.
Thy wounded knight, stoic in the
Shackled tongue of his servitude,
Lies half-dead on the piste of faraway lands,
Whilst the king sits here,
Ravening the feast and spraying commands.
And though the blade still lingers in that bloody cut,
I hear his voice carried across the breeze
From o’er the red rocks and mountainous sand,
To whispering softly now,
Ever softly amongst the leaves:
“I fought with faith in my kingdom,
But my fortunes hath forsaken all that I have become.
Father, lover, brother, son;
Torn from ancient chains and flung
to the mercy of ghostly giants,
wandering homeward over this arid plain.
See now, watch as their caliginous hands
sweep softly the dust from beds of black marble stone,
Rivverrin dry from spurted thoughts to trickled desire,
To lie down, and lie still,
Shapely forms dislimned in their sleep
And become as death effigies buried by the deep."'
