Mortals all,
Blind we fade,
The prophecy
Not clear in the cup,
And after is
Is after all,
Knowing not
Of what we’re made;
Then bourgeois maiden
Of wifely cares
Come weave me in
Your routine days
Clean my brains
As you sweep the stairs
And lull me with your
Bee hive ways;
Do not let my heart
Choke up
Or head ache
In vain puzzlement
Over
What I’ll never know,
Nor
Really
Ever
Need
To know.
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