“What place holds you here?”
The siren seemed to say with her sigh.
And so, the lad, who had no pad in place;
Whispered,
“Whilst I sit wetted in cacoethes
And knowing not – any place to be home
Nor ever thinking of thee
in wistful romantic Brahms interludes;
nor nudes of Romanesque bask!
The place I am -
is not the place I hold”
“Why do you require such fires –
when this place is dark empty space;
lace with nominal case
an uncommon place;
a faceless mask.”
The silvery siren sipped
At the lad’s collapsing desires
And then, slowly slipped away
Singing back, “Le moment est un lieu.”
“A fond farewell to my illusions of you!
Torment me no more you shrew!”
The lad mused regret of his reject in place.
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