A woven cloak of silk, taught ‘cross his back.
He wore authority and ironed pleats.
She spoke and sang to pull a loosened slack
Of conversation bare, which nude man speaks.
He will respond with intellect and wit
A time he knew she sung forgotten verse
With tact, she thwarts once stout now tepid grit,
To strip him nude, A plague, she thought, A curse.
The years gone like folds which delineate
His face, his robe, the wisdom lost in time
With ruggedness, he sings the song of fate.
Of death. Of Love, she’s far too late to find.
He rises, A king who fell from lofty thrown
The naked man she thought she’d never known.
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