Farside Observing

" Her attires molten tapestry
   I undress the beauty clutched to skin
   her milken eyes do the flavour

  As dusk-flesh seems to grow to moon-night

  Pardon me oh my beau
  Thy sun is not in thy body
  carving into thy golden clouds

  are but clinging things called skies - angel's elixir

  Oh what beauty in but in the flesh of one

  the mortal combinations so overflown

  in the delicate, the coarse tranquilty mates with discordance
  Thy soul's weaving such a splendid flawed portrait..."