Luxurious warmth imbued
From the sparks of the Inglenook fire.
The heavy, heated, handsome furniture
Betrays his new epicurean hand,
Miles from our halcyon days:
The quintessential champagne slows to
The fragility of the falling gossamer.
I want to impress, to sparkle, to surprise
But here, at his party, in his place,
Inhabited by the esoteric circle from which I feel
Geometric exclusion,
I remain the loquacious but eloquent missive,
Whom everyone has learnt to ignore.
What do I do here?
I wonder.
Why is the concubine here?
Their identical porcelain eyes enquire.
Oh! And then an epiphany!
This room is but a palimpsest
In which the truth is hidden
in the penumbra just beneath.
I feel ethereal
Not anything but a ripple
Yet I see the snapping of the
glanourous gossamer
And the rhapsody begins.
