October 9th, 2013



The architect was worried for his dome.
He ate an egg for breakfast, saw it crack
with one spoon-stroke, imagined the attack
a well placed cannon – He'd a child at home

a daughter. It would cost him much to rear
her as a gentlewoman. Harpsichords
and sketching lessons. You'd don't marry lords
without accomplishments. Shed a tear

made his decision. It was for the best.
His reputation was his stock in trade.
Much less expensive if she died a maid.
He sold his soul, her life, You know the rest.

His bloody hand plucked out her virgin heart.
The dome still stands, a perfect work of art.


It was the bed she slept on and the dress
she wore about the house. It was the veil
she hid behind. In snow and rain and hail
it kept her dry. And if she felt distress

which she did, often, it would dry each tear.
Keeping it clean and brushed was her whole life.
In nightmares she would hack it with a knife,
then watch in mirrors as she'd disappear

because, without it, she would not be there.
Her face was plain, she thought, her talk was trite.
She'd no idea what people do at night
save sleep. Her only lover was her hair.

She'd spend whole days, brush, lather and then rinse.
It kept her far too busy for some Prince.